
Class 



:niii 



dcL 



c» 



Book vD d^S 



Copyright N"_^\^^ 2 



COPntlGHT DEPOSIT. 



SOUTH SEA FOAM 
A. SAFRONI-MIDDLETON 



SOUTH SEA FOAM 

THE ROMANTIC ADVENTURES 

OF A MODERN DON QUIXOTE 

IN THE SOUTHERN SEAS 

BY 
A. SAFRONI-MIDDLETON 




NEW XBr YORK 
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



n 






COPYRIGHT, 1920, 
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



StP 1 7 i920 
©CI,A601086 



TO 
G. B. S.-M. 



" On the open window-sill of the universal soul the ancient 
seolian harp awakes." — Andrew Millar, Robes of Pan. 



PREFACE 

THOUGH the adventures recorded in this book may- 
set up the impression that I am a kind of Don 
Quixote of the South Seas, I do not claim to have 
sought to redress wrongs done to beauteous dusky 
maidens. It was the ardent, adventurous spirit of youth 
that brought me to the side of such original characters 
as Fae Fae, Soogy, and Fanga, and gave me the charm- 
ing friendship of those pagan chiefs who have inspired 
me to write this book. It is possible that many stay-at- 
homes will think I have romanced, will think it incredible 
that such characters as I have attempted to portray really 
existed. Well, all I can say is, that my greatest literary 
effort in the following pages has been to keep to the 
truth of the whole matter, even though such frankness 
should leave me, at the end of this volume, with a 
blackened name. 

As I have introduced several Polynesian legends and 
myths in this book, I would like to make a few remarks 
with reference thereto. In recording my memories of 
Island folk-lore I have to use, of course, my own 
order of intelligence — as compared with that of the wild 
people who told the stories — when I attempt to recreate 
the legendary lore, the poetry, and the loveliness of the 
natural world as it must have appeared to the imagina- 
tion of primitive minds believing in them. In doing 
this I merely accept the inevitable transmutation which 
all legends and myths of primitive peoples must undergo 
when written down. 

Myths in their earliest stage were the poetic babblings 

vii 



viii PREFACE 

of the children of nature. It is certain that folk-lore 
which comes to us in written form has been subjected 
to obvious transformation. All creation-myths and 
subtle moving legends that are representative of human 
passions and yearning, be they from the lore of the 
ancient Finns, Hindoos, Babylonians, Japanese, Egyp- 
tians, or Greeks, have been completely transformed 
before they reached us. Legends are told, retold, and 
embellished in accordance with the storyteller's notion 
of what seems compatible with and faithful to primitive 
conceptions, until, out of the imaginative fires of a 
dozen or so narrators, we get the poetic picture which 
the primitive mind probably conceived, but was unable 
to express. There is little doubt, I imagine, that, if it 
were possible to trace our great epic poems to their 
remote original sources, we should find them based on 
simple poetic superstition which had its origin in the 
minds of the lowest tribes of primitive man. Thus, 
through the influence of mind on mind, the world's 
great epic, when compared to that far-off original, will 
resemble it as much as the nightingale's egg of this 
summer will resemble the full-fledged bird's midnight- 
song to next year's moon. 

So much would I say for my method in writing my 
reminiscences of heathen fairyland. As for idol- 
worship, I have written about it just as O'Hara and I 
saw it with our own eyes, distinct and solid as are the 
biblical images of stone in the churches of our own 
sacred creed. 

I make no attempt to trace outside influences on the 
mythologies of Island creeds; indeed, no influences can 
be traced. The only influence I was aware of, or ever 
heard discussed, was this, that with the advent of the 
missionary, Island mythology and heathen legends were 
sponged off the map of existence. The missionaries, 



PREFACE ix 

naturally enough, could see no use in preserving leg- 
endary creeds founded on idol-worship and sacrificial 
cannibalism, and all that was certainly " not the correct 
thing " in a world where morals and manners differ so 
greatly from our own. In this way, both the old legends 
and the crude, primitive conceptions of religious wor- 
ship have long since been swept away, and sometimes 
also the tribes that cherished these crude ideas were 
swept away with their creeds. 

Islands that twenty years ago had populations number- 
ing many thousand, to-day have a scattered population 
of a hundred or so. The blue-blooded Marquesan tribes 
have been wiped out. The survivors are so mixed in 
blood that they do not seem the children of their fathers. 
So rapid has been the change that many old chiefs 
are still living who recall the days when the voices of 
the winds and mountains were mutter ings of the mighty 
gods of shadowland. Born under the influences of new 
conditions, the natives of to-day do not look back beyond 
the lotu times. Their imaginations are steeped in the 
atmosphere of the biblical stories they learn in the 
mission-room. Having a sense of shame for the sins 
of their fathers, they deny even the far-off wonders of 
the tapu-groves. In these tapu-groves, and beneath the 
sacred banyan trees, there once stood the heathen temples 
(mareas), the dwelling-places of those terrible priests 
who, empowered by superstitious reverence, officiated at 
the sacrificial altars. These priests were more powerful 
in their profession than cannibal chiefs or heathen kings. 
Looking at the ruins of the altars overgrown with weeds, 
it seems incredible that human hands were once lifted 
in supplication to relentless captors before they were 
sacrificed to the bigotry of heathen gospel. It forces 
upon us the similarity of their fate and that of our old 
English martyrs. In the forest, hard by, slept the dead — 



X PREFACE 

the dead who were the strange, wild peoples that once 
made every shadow a lurking god, their superstitious eyes 
seeing the starlit forest's height as some mighty dark- 
branched brain of a heathen deity's glittering thoughts. 

The Polynesians believed that their great ancestors 
were metamorphosed into stars; in this belief there is 
something of the Egyptian and Hellenic touch. There 
are many star-legends concerning the origin of the 
conspicuous constellations of their lovely skies, legends 
that strangely resemble those of Greek mythology. As 
Circe turned Odysseus' comrades into swine, so did the 
heathen goddesses turn Samoan warriors into crabs, 
snakes, and cuttle-fish. Travellers have often been 
struck by this resemblance in South-Sea mythology to 
the folk-lore of the western world. The resemblance, 
I think, is easy enough to understand, for Man is man 
wherever one goes in this wide world. Be he black, 
tawny, or white, his innermost hopes and aspirations 
are much the same. 

The South-Sea savage gazed with the same wondering 
eyes of hope on the travelling sun, moon, and stars. 
To his childlike mind they were the movements of his 
mighty deities and ancestors. He too peopled the 
visible universe with gods and goddesses, as did the 
ancient Greeks; the phenomena of nature impressed 
his mind in much the same way as it has impressed man- 
kind from the remotest ages. The same kind of sorrow 
dwelt in the hearts of those old-time savages when they 
gazed on the dead child in* the forest. The sunsets 
blew the silent bugles of mysterious hues along their 
horizons, touching their lovely skylines with unheard 
but visible melodies over the briefness of all living 
things. They too crept out of their forests long ages 
ago, and stared with wonder on the rainbow that shone 
over their empurpled seas. Those old rainbows, sunsets, 



PREFACE xi 

and stars left the first etherealized impressions of 
beauty in the heart of primeval Man the world over. 
And those old rainbows, sunsets, and stars still exist, 
are shining to-day in Man's imagination, in all those 
longings for the beautiful that we call " Strivings after 
Art." Thus there is a strong link, a twinship between us 
and those past savage races. Their old symbols of the 
stars, drifting clouds, fading sunsets, and moons that 
once hung in the wide galleries of their heaven still 
exist in all our poetic conceptions of that which is wild 
and beautiful. Through the alchemy of man's trans- 
muting mind, the wonders of that old world are 
represented in all that is highest in our Art; the very 
landscape-painting that hangs on our homestead walls 
to-day faintly expresses the poetic light that once sparkled 
in the eyes of those who lived when the world dreamed 
in its savage childhood. The music maestro to-day 
stands before the footlights, not of the stars, but before 
Man's artificial splendour of lamplit halls, a highly- 
cultured savage, some wonderful embodiment of the 
genius who once blew in the magical conch-shell — that 
old barbarian musician who instinctively caught the 
harmonies of creation from the resounding primeval seas, 
the winds in the forests, and the songs of the first birds, 
applying them as sympathetic symbols of sound that he 
might please the earnest longings, the deepest dreams of 
that shaggy-haired, fierce audience that assembled in their 
barbarian forest halls. So it seems that nothing that 
pleases our eyes and senses belong to civilization or is 
of our own making. I imagine that it has all been 
derived from the first tremendous blackboard — the prim- 
itive days and starlit nights of heathen lands. And, so, 
the first wild children of creation were our masters, who 
unconsciously studied in the great school of Art under 
God's mysterious tuition that we might feel the pride 



xii PREFACE 

and glory of all that is beautiful and divine, with hope 
in this far-away New Day! We dwell to-day in a 
materialistic age of brassy-blare and " advanced thought." 
We have weighted ourselves with the thick armour of 
civilization, till we fight on with curved spines, hardly 
listing where we may fall. The old mythological light 
of the stars is now switched on the pounding machinery 
of our cities, instead of being fixed on our imaginations. 
We grope in some darkness of our own making, as a 
thousand sects mumble in their beards about some du- 
bious hope beyond the grave. We are chained prisoners 
in the stone cells of our own vaunted ambitions. No 
flower or singing bird is a true symbol of hope, delight, 
or wonder; all that we see is divested of the fairy-wings 
of that imagination that brings us wealth beyond our 
fleshly selves. The true poetry of life has gone for ever. 
The wild bird's song steams in our old stew-pot — we 
like it better that way! But one must suppose that 
all this is as it should be. Nevertheless, we are the old 
savages, the Dark Ages, in a double sense, dreaming 
that we are the children of the Golden Age ! The nursery 
tale told to the children as they sat by some Kentish 
homestead's fireside last night, was whispered into the 
ears of wondering children of the South Seas long ages 
ago. 

In reference to the general style of my book, I have 
written on the theory that autobiographical Vv^iting 
should be inspired, not by any idea of the apparent 
merits of those things which the author may feel that 
he has done well, but from his indwelling regret over 
the many things which he has never succeeded in doing 
at all. I imagine that it is so easy to convince the 
world of our faults and so difficult to interest it by 
putting down on paper those virtues we all secretly 
hope we possess. However that may be, my reader 



PREFACE xiii 

can rest assured that my memoirs are based on my 
happy meditations over all the great, worldly things 
that I have never succeeded in doing, and so, whatever 
interest my book lacks, is not lacking through any fault 
of my own. 

I feel that it is necessary to admit here that I have 
been obliged to dig deep whilst resuscitating from the 
legendary dark the old mummies, the gods and god- 
desses which I found buried in the pyramids of heathen 
mythology. It is I who have breathed the new breath of 
life into their dusty nostrils as I unrolled their spiced, 
rotting swathings so that they might have some re- 
semblance to the time when they had true visionary ex- 
istence before the wondering eyes of those wild, savage 
peoples of a mythological past. I have placed them, with 
a little diffidence, on their crumbling feet, refashioning 
them with their unsewn eyelids and mouths somewhat 
awry, on show in the temple of my memoirs, in full 
view, standing along the aisles of dim remembrance, 
faintly lit up, I hope, by the light of my own imagination. 

As books of an autobiographical nature usually de- 
vote a chapter or so to incidents connected with the 
author's birth and childhood, and as some of the critics 
of my previous books wished to know something of 
my genesis, I am pleased to say that I am still full 
of go, still following the sea-birds and land-birds on my 
vagabond travels. Through my parentage I can claim 
the blood of three nations — English, Scottish, and a 
strain of Italian — my mother being a descendant of 
Thomas Haynes Bayly, the English ballad-writer; 
my father, a literary man, a descendant of Charles, 
the second Earl of Middleton, and a lady of the Italian 
Court: I believe this lady wrote some revolutionary 
songs, which were the direct cause of her enforced 
flight from her own country. Having said this much, 



xiv PREFACE 

I will retire as gracefully as possible by saying that I 
have only stepped on the stage of this book as one of 
its humblest actors, as a hollow-voiced prompter who 
would bolster up the reputations of his old friends of 
the past with the weight of his fleshly self. And so 
I am here in the spirit of good comradeship, the far-away 
echo of my violin on the South-Sea buskin march as- 
sisting those who are scattered or dead, and no longer 
able to help themselves on this new stage of a shadowy 
drama in which I have placed them. 

JV. S.-M. 



CONTENTS 

PART ONE 

PAGE 

CHAPTER I. SAMOA: FIRST IMPRESSIONS 

Author's Heritage — Arrives at Samoa — Disillusioned — Illu- 
sive Romance — Golden-skinned Polynesian Maids — Meets 
great Heathen Philosophers — The Samoan Chief, O Le Tao 23 

CHAPTER II. TROUBADOURING IN TAHITI 

I ship with a genuine Old-time Crew — Poetic Nightmares — 
Tattooed Manuscripts of the Seas ! — I learn the Art 
of Forcible Expression — Tar-pots — The Storm — Washed 
Overboard — Papeete — Pokara — How the first Coco-nuts 
came — Star Myths 49 

CHAPTER III. POKARA'S STORY 

Pokara tells me how the first Idol came to be Worshipped 92 

CHAPTER IV. I MEET ALOA 

The Hut in the Mountains — A Modern Fairy — ^The Es- 
cape — Love's Hospitality — The Stranger from the Infinite 
Seas! 100 

CHAPTER V. FAE FAE 

I meet O'Hara — The Emotional Irish Temperament — The 
Tahitian Temperament — O'Hara and I go Pearl-hunting — 
Tapee, the Old-time Idol-worshipper 106 

CHAPTER VI. ABDUCTION OF A PRINCESS 

O'Hara in Love — Fae Fae's Midnight Elopement — Chased 
— A Melodramatic Race for Life — The Innocence of Eve — 
Temptation— The Lost Bride — The Madness of Romance — 
Outbound for Honolulu 115 

XV 



xvi CONTENTS 

PAGE 

CHAPTER VII. THE HEATHEN'S GARDEN OF EDEN 

Tangalora the Samoan Scribe— Where the Gods and God- 
desses first met in Council— The Materials of which the 
first Mortal Children were Fashioned— The first Wonder- 
ing Men— The first Women— How the first Babies came to 
their Mothers 144 

CHAPTER VIII. IN OLD FIJI 

A Heathen Monastery— A Scene of Primitive Heathenism 
— My unsolicited Professional Engagement — I imbibe Kava 
— I am made " Taboo " — Things that 1 may not Confess — 
My Escape — Fanga Loma — A Native Village — The En- 
chantress of the Forest — Temptation — In Suva again . .158 

CHAPTER IX. KASAWAYO AND THE SERPENT 

(A Fijian Legend for Young and Old Children) 
A Goddess in the Garb of Mortality — A Garden of Eden — 
Temptation — Kasawayo and Kora the Mortal — The Battle 
Flight to Shadowland 175 

PART TWO 

CHAPTER X. O LE LANGI THE PAGAN POET 

A Pagan Poet — Influence of Byron and Keats — Star-myths 
Enchanted Crab 203 

CHAPTER XI. R. L. S. IN SAMOA 

O Le Langi's Influence— Heathen Magic— Poetic Aspira- 
tions— Ramao and Essimao-Samoan Types— Robert Louis 
Stevenson and the "Beautiful White Woman "—O Le 
Langi becomes a Part of the Forest— " Here lies O Le 
Langi"— A Great Truth .214 

CHAPTER XII. A MOHAMMEDAN BANQUET 

A Child of American Democracy— Rajah Barab— Barba- 
rossa— Brown-Slave Traffic Methods— Motavia's Grave— 
The Magic Casement— The Splendour of Rose-coloured 
Spectacles— Mohammedanistic Desires— Giovanni's Love 
Affairs— Exit Barab 238 



CONTENTS xvii 

PAGE 

CHAPTER XIII. AN OLD MARQUESAN QUEEN 

In Tai-o-hae — I come across a widowed Marquesan 
Queen — Am received with Dignity — The Artistic Tattoo on 
Loi Vakamoa's Royal Person — The Queen tells how she 
was married to a certain Martm Smith of New South 
Wales — An aged Queen's Vanity — A Heathen Necropolis 254 

CHAPTER XIV. TISSEMOA AND THE CUTTLE-FISH 

Impressionistic Scene in Nuka Hiva — Tissemao listens to 
the Luring Voice of a Cuttle-fish — The Love-stricken 
Cuttle-fish — When Crabs are Brave 265 

CHAPTER XV. CHARITY ORGANIZATION OF THE 
SOUTH SEAS 

I fall from Space — Court Violinist — Arrive in Fiji— With 
the Great Missing 273 

CHAPTER XVI. YORAKA'S DAUGHTER 

The Wild White Girl — The Wagner of Storms — A Pagan 
Citadel — Pagan Democracy — Ye Old Britisher — A Battle 
in the Dark 287 

CHAPTER XVII. SOOGY, CHILD OF POETRY 

Poetry's Legitimate Child — Music's Fairyland — A Civilized 
Old Man of the Sea — A Clerical Hat is the Symbol of 
Modern Religion 318 

CHAPTER XVIII. RETROSPECT 

The Modern Old Man of the Sea— Fifty Pounds !— A 
Human Octopus — Adrift at Sea — Sorrow — Saved — In 
Tonga— Our Old Man's last Hiding-place — Retrospect . Z2(> 



TO YOU MEN OF THE CITIES 



Come ! follow me o'er the sun-bleached sands by the seas where 
the small grog-shanty stands 

On the Wallaby track to Falaboo. 

Come ! drink of the sunsets, rich old wine from the wandering 
sinful days of mine, 

For 'tis only in dreams the world rings true. 

Come ! dream of some magic, far-off day, some lone backyard in 
the Milky way ! 

I'll fiddle ; how the wandering stars will dance ! 

We'll sing together — " Yo ho ! yo ho ! " as on the mighty God- 
winds blow 

Through the dreams of my world of gay romance. 

I've tramped the tracks to Malabo, I've been the way the fallen 

go! 
When times were bad my fiddle wailed their grief — 
Till, by the camp-fires on the steep, one by one they fell asleep: 
(I've buried three, dead in their boots beneath 
The breadfruit trees, with all their dreams and Heaven knows 

what thwarted schemes!) 
We'd tramped the cities, then we sought the huts. 
And now? — secure on heathen isles, my pals still sport their 

hopeful smiles: 
We're looking thin on rum and coco-nuts! 



So read these pioneer strains of mine, and drink deep, friend, as 

men do wine. 
Of sunsets on the ocean's foaming rim, 

Of far-away and long ago where the scented trade w^inds blow 
Till skylines sigh the stars full to the brim! 
As on I tramp through sun-parched days or camp beside the 

trackless ways. 
Here with my fiddle in the jungle curl'd, 

xix 



XX TO YOU MEN OF THE CITIES 

Weighed down with wealth! — my tropic seas, my roof of stars 

above palm trees, 
My home the hills and highways of the world! 
But — if you men of far-off towns have got a few spare old 

half-crowns. 
Just buy my book, it's really not the worst 
Man ever wrote, but nearly so, and that's quite near enough, you 

know ; 
So, be my friend — and read it " till you burst." 



Part One 



SOUTH SEA FOAM 



PART ONE 

CHAPTER I. SAMOA: FIRST IMPRESSIONS 

Author's Heritage — Arrives at Samoa — Disillusioned — 
Illusive Romance — Golden-skinned Polynesian Maids — 
Meets great Heathen Philosophers — The Samoan Chief, 
O Le Tao. 

I'd fiddled in Australia, lived on cheek, 
Cursed all the gold-fields ever found down South, 
Lived with mosquitoes down by Bummer's Creek — 
To say the least, I'd felt down in the mouth. 
I'd tramped the seaboard cities with my fiddle 
To make my fortune, but ne'er solved the riddle. 
I'd got quite thin on nuts and grins and smiles, 
So emigrated to the South Sea Isles — 

That Eldorado where men yawned and seemed to make their 
piles ! 

EVEN the wind, my boon companion — for are we 
not both born roamers? — seems to blow chunks of 
old memories through the moonlit, tossing pines that are 
sighing to-night outside this wayside inn. It's here that 
we rest awhile, my fiddle and I, as I take up my pen to 
record some of the incidents from my early travels. 
Time, in its everlasting hurry, gives me the briefest 
space to say all I wish to say; and ere the month ends 
I shall be, once more, outbound on the western ocean. 
Personally, I think that to have inherited a pair of 
rose-coloured spectacles from one's ancestors is to have 

23 



24 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

been endowed at birth with inexhaustible wealth, as well 
as being born a king in one's own right. Such an in- 
heritance enables one to conjure up the finest illusions, 
helps one to surmount apparently impossible heights, 
and also cheers one in each inevitable precipitous fall. 
I've often blessed the fates in the thought that they so 
kindly enabled me to warm my hands and heart by 
an imaginary fire when the winds were blowing cold. So 
much would I say, in complete humbleness, about my 
special gift. Possibly the aforesaid gift is the only in- 
herited privilege that entitles me to write this book deal- 
ing with my life and travels in the South Seas. So far 
as the world's and my own opinion goes, I've no violent 
claim to write more than three books. For, true enough, 
it does not make for notoriety and a keen interest in one's 
self from a wide public to have done the things that I've 
done. I seriously doubt if my effigy will be seen in 
Madame Tussaud's waxwork show when I come to die. 
The plain fact is, that it is not considered highly re- 
spectable to have slept in a wharf-dustbin in a strange 
land, unashamed, and with the lid on! And to have 
knelt in the complete obeisance of idolatry before a 
wooden idol with a tattooed heathen poet, and deliber- 
ately w^orshipped at the old shrine of the stars, is, to 
say the least, not quite the thing. Neither does a wan- 
dering vagabond life, and a deep feeling of kinship with 
strange old shellbacks, ragged derelicts, and tattooed 
chiefs, lay a suitable foundation for recording one's 
omissions and sins in polite form. However that may be, 
I believe that to have dined deeply on salt-horse and 
weevily hard-tack, and to have played the fiddle on the 
" Wallaby track " from Maoriland to the Solomon Isles, 
is to have gathered an outfit of dire accomplishments that 
I hope may have inspired me with something to say. 
First of all, I will say that, though I had been smash- 



SAMOA: FIRST IMPRESSIONS 25 

ing about the seaports from Shanghai to Callao, and 
had trekked across the Never-Never land, generally 
bound for Nowhere, I still had strange hopes that wild 
pioneer life and romance, as I had read about it ere 
I ran away to sea, existed somewhere in the world. I 
was down in the dumps, stranded in Sydney, when the 
great opportunity presented itself. By the wharf, in the 
harbour, lay a three-masted ship. When I went aboard 
I heard that she was bound for the South Sea Islands 
— the Isles of the Blest! 

"Any chance of a job?" I said to the chief mate. 
He solemnly shook his head, then critically scanned 
me, then pointing tow^ards the cuddy aft, referred me 
to the skipper. Entering the gloom of the cuddy's 
small alleyway, I bumped up against the " Old Man." 

"What yer wan?" 

" Any chance of a job, sir? " I murmured in my very 
best longing-for-work voice. The skipper stood stroking 
his whiskers, and, after scrutinizing me from head to 
feet, demanded to see my discharges. 

" Git yer traps and come aboard." 

I was engaged as a member of the crew. 

Next day we were towed down the harbour by a 
tug, and by midnight had a steady wnnd on the quarter, 
which took us out with all sails set into the Pacific. 

It was a monotonous, long voyage. The " Saga," for 
that was the name of the ship, wasn't a " Cutty Sark " 
or a " Thermopylae " for speed.^ Anyway, the length 
of the voyage helped to warm my ardent longing to 
arrive at the palmy coral isles. 

I think I was the happiest member of the crew when, 
after much buffeting with wild weather and stinking 
pork and maggoty hard-tack, our old wind-jammer 

1 The " Cutty Sark " and " Thermopylae " were two of the fastest 
sailing ships running from London to Sydney. The author sailed 
before the mast from Sydney to San Francisco on the " Cutty Sark." 



26 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

hugged the outer reefs of the Samoan Isles. Ah, the 
music of the long-drawn sounds of the surges beating 
over the barrier reefs! I half fancied I could hear the 
palms sighing lyrical melodies as the winds crept like 
overflowing zephyrs from some great scented dream 
across that pagan world. On the dim blue horizon 
rose ranges of mountains, apparently touching the tropic 
sky: they were, to me, the peaks of romance! 

The dry tongues of the aged, seasoned sailors hung 
out as they rubbed their tarry hands and sniffed the 
distant grog-saloon. Old M'Dougal, the ship's carpenter, 
danced a jig and looked human for the first time. The 
Dutch boatswain pulled his red beard, gave a terrific 
grin in the moonlight, and muttered something about 
'* Voomen and vine." Then I got my few belongings 
together, packed my violin carefully, and was ready 
to go ashore. 

It was quite dark when I found myself being rowed, 
or rather paddled, ashore in an out-rigger canoe. As 
I went gliding by the moon-ridden lagoons, I felt that 
at last I had surely entered some magical harbour of 
a fairy land. 

Even when sunrise came like a silent crash of liquid 
gold over the wide Pacific, touching the mountain peaks 
and the scattered bee-hive-shaped huts of the forest 
townships, I was not disillusioned. All seemed as I 
had so fondly anticipated; it was as I had read about 
it all. Men yarned and argued dogmatically as they 
stood, fierce-eyed, before the bar of the wooden grog- 
shanty; there they stood, attired in large slouched hats, 
telling such mighty things about their thrilling travels 
that even old Homer, could he have heard, might well 
have sighed with envy! 

When dusk came and I heard the tribal drums beat- 
ing the stars in far away up in the forest villages, I 



SAMOA: FIRST IMPRESSIONS 27 

thought, " Here at least I shall find rest from the hot- 
footed turbulency of civilized humanity; here I can dwell 
beneath the Eden-like shades of feathery palms, and 
listen to the wind-blown melodies as they come in from 
the sea and run across the island trees. I revelled in 
such like thoughts. I felt that I had come across a 
pagan world where no more should I hear servile mum- 
blings of a conventional people. I would peer into 
savage bright eyes and listen to the poetic lore of peo- 
ple who worshipped at the shrine of the stars and 
counted their days by the fading moons. But when 
the fierce-eyed, tattooed chief, leaning on his war-club 
before the rough customers of the grog-shanty's bar, 
looked straight into the eyes of an old shellback, and, 
bringing his club down with a crash, said, with much 
vehemence, that he preferred Solomon's Songs to the 
second chapter of the Corinthians, I rubbed my eyes 
and thought I dreamed! My chagrin was immense; 
those delectable palm-clad isles of primitive lore and 
romance had come under the blighting influence of civi- 
lization and of missionaries ! 

I was in Apia, Samoa, R. L. S., attired in his velvet 
coat, walked into the bar-room and then suddenly said, 
" Damn ! " when the Beachcomber trod on his toe, bowed, 
and said, "Beg pawden, soir!" I strolled afar and dis- 
covered that bright-eyed babies, nestling at the bosoms 
of their shaggy-haired, handsome mothers, slept as " safe 
as houses " in doorless, small-thatched dens under the 
moonlit palms. And, wandering on, I saw star-eyed, 
nymph-like girls with tossing, coral-dyed hair, pass and 
repass me on the lonely forest track, singing merrily in 
a musical tongue as they dived once more into the shad- 
ows of the coco-palms.^ All this was extremely pleas- 

^ The Samoans are not tawny or mahogany coloured, but are of 
a pleasing, golden-skinned hue, sometimes fairer than Europeans. 



28 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

ing. But one may imagine how my tenacious illusions 
were grossly shattered when the majestic ex-king Mal- 
aetoa of the proud Le Solu Dynasty, last of his an- 
cient line, followed me into the isolated grog-shanty 
hard by, gazed into my eyes with fondest affection, and 
said, *' Mine's a bitter!'* 

O, illusive Romance! 

Nevertheless adventure abounded. Those semi-savage 
men sang weird soulful songs, melodious ballads, about 
half-forgotten legends, and battles long ago; and their 
love-songs were as pleasing as the beauty and innocence 
of their womenkind. I roamed those palm-clad shores 
for days, and was considerably enlightened in an edu- 
cational way, for I came across clans of strange old 
heathens, who seemed to me to be the disciples of the 
one true transcendent democracy. They were semi- 
naked heathen philosophers, old men clad in loin-cloths 
only. My pleasure was immense when I observed them 
sitting by their coral cave doors, solemnly chewing nuts, 
apparently as happy as the sunny, livelong day. It was 
sunset, and when they all commenced to beat their drums 
violently, beating the stars in, it seemed that their hoarse, 
quaintly musical voices, wailed out, " Behold ! we are 
the people ! Creation hath nobly toiled through the ages 
till, lo ! the blessed sun warms our aged bones as nature 
casts into our trembling hands digestible nuts and sw^t- 
scented taro ! " 

Could I help liking the companionship of such happy, 
wise old philosophers? 

Many of those old-time natives were endowed with 
wonderful poetic intellect. And I vow that such an 
intellect my old Samoan friend, O Le Tao, possessed. 
I came across Tao about three weeks after arriving in 
Upolu. And I may say, that though I've played the 
fiddle under a palm tree outside a barbarian queen's 



SAMOA: FIRST IMPRESSIONS 29 

royal seraglio, and have been given the Freedom of the 
pagan city in consequence, I can recall no one who was 
more hospitable to me than O Le Tao. And so, before 
proceeding with the wild life and adventures which I 
experienced after leaving Samoa for Tahiti, I would 
like just to touch on O Le Tao's character and genius 
by the way. In fact, O Le Tao was interesting, if only 
on account of his physiognomy, which strangely resem- 
bled the weird scenery of Samoa by moonlight — scenery 
that I feel is an eminently suitable background for in- 
troducing him, and not in an impressionistic sketch either, 
but just as I knew him in his meditative old age. 

First, I would tell you that it was a lovely sight to 
see the tropical orange flush of evening fade to a deep, 
fairy-like green on the sea's horizon beyond the scimi- 
tar-shaped bay off Apia. Then, one by one, the stars 
peeped out, not down from the sky, but wistful-like up 
from the lagoons along the shore. It was an Olympian 
scene and one that I should imagine would inspire the 
most unimaginative observer. The native villages were 
silent; the mountains, like mighty sentinels staring out 
to sea, stood with tangled forest beards, sighing down 
to their rugged knees. Moonlit lines of palms waved like 
majestic plumes against the crystalline skies; a falling 
star seemed a pale ember blown out of the far-off con- 
stellations. But for the tiny pagan city of huts, nestling 
as it were in the crevice of the mountain's hip, it might 
have been an uninhabited island world. Far down in 
the lower regions, in the vicinity of the mountain's vast 
feet, a canoe was paddled out from the hairy growths 
between those mighty toes. It was a savage, wrinkled 
old man of another age, paddling off for the silent waters 
in a canoe, that was, to him, a small argosy bearing 
him away to the wonders of shadow-land ! But it wasn't 
as weird as all that; it was simply the Samoan chief. 



30 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

O Le Tao, stealing away under the cover of night to 
one of the neighbouring islets, so that he might wor- 
ship his hidden idol. Though I cannot claim to have 
been there on that special night, I well know it was none 
other than O Le Tao. And how I know this is my own 
secret. Possibly I've been a heathen too, and have pros- 
trated myself before an idol; I'm queer enough for 
anything. However that may be, I recall that I met 
O Le Tao next day. I was travelling along in the 
vicinity of Mount Vala. I had just had an appetizing 
meal of Bass's Ale and monkey-nuts — and was feeling 
in good humour. Coco-palms, breadfruits, and other 
picturesque trees sheltered me from the hot sunlight and 
my banana-leaf socks hardly swished as I softly trod 
the beautifully woven carpet of flower and fern that 
Nature's patient hand had spread across the forest floor. 
The sea breeze swept pungent whiffs, like iced wine, 
to my nostrils, as I followed the track made by soft- 
footed savages for ages. Suddenly I was startled by 
seeing a frizzly, partially bald head protrude through 
the bamboos. It was O Le Tao's cranium. 

" What you wanter here ? " he said. 

"Talofa! e maloto ea oe " (I greet you, comrade, 
and hope you are well), I responded, as the chief's brow 
puckered up with suspicion. 

'' What you gotter there — moosic ? " 

"Yes," I responded, as he eyed my violin. 

"You no tafoa vale?" 

"No; I'm a friend," I replied, as I handed him a 
mark. This largesse changed his aggressive look into 
a broad smile of welcome. Following him, I entered 
his hut. I sat on his best mat and drank refreshing coco- 
nut milk. Suddenly we were disturbed by hearing loud 
gnmts, heavy breathing, and smashing of twigs. In an- 
other moment an aged Samoan woman entered the hut. 



SAMOA: FIRST IMPRESSIONS 31 

She was a fine-looking old woman, and had kind eyes. 
She was carrying a huge calabash of water beneath one 
arm. Its cumbersome weight did not deter her from 
further efforts — in the other hand she held a coco-nut, 
a basketful of fish — all alive O! — on her back a bunch 
of bananas, and between her teeth two fishing rods. 
She was O Le Tao*s industrious better half. She too 
made me welcome. Then pretty Cenerita, their daugh- 
ter, arrived. She had pretty hair, and eyes that out- 
shone the gleams of the three coco-nut-oil lamps, hang- 
ing from the hut's low roof that night; for it all ended 
in O Le Tao asking me to stay the night with them. 

When the hour was late, I felt very contented as I 
squatted by their homestead's door by Cenerita's side. 
Then the old chief commenced to tell me about the grand 
old freebooting times. 

O Le Tao was over seventy years of age, and so was 
a reliable authority on the old sins and wonders of the 
heathen period of his palmy isles. 

As the old chief spoke on, and his wife, Cenerita, and 
I sat by the doorway that faced the ocean, I too became 
transformed into a semi-heathen, the Samoan under- 
world becoming some dim, far-off reality to my brain. 
The moon shone over the dark waters, and the voices 
coming from the dark shore caves just below seemed to 
drum out muffled echoes from the old gods of shadow- 
land, as I listened to all that O Le Tao told. 

Cenerita had ceased to sing. We could faintly hear 
the le sanga (red-winged nightingale) whisding its 
melodious song somewhere up in the mountain bread- 
fruits. And still O Le Tao spoke on in this wise: 

" O Papalagi, you must know and believe that, in 
those far-off days, the great spirits of shadowland did 
walk about the native villages by night. Often would 
the gods knock at the doors of the great Atuiis (high 



32 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

chiefs), bidding them strive for their mighty require- 
ments; which were many. And sad enough for us in 
the great sacrificial month!" said O Le Tao after a 
pause; then he continued: "O white man, I must tell 
you that Lao-mio was my kinsm.an's child and was a 
maid beautiful to gaze upon." 

"Doubtless," I said, as he continued. 

"And of course she was daughter of great chief, 
so to fall in love with a low-caste youth, as she did, 
was a terrible disgrace to me and my people. Also the 
gods, Tangaloa, Tuli, Tane, and the goddesses of O E 
Langi (Elysium) were dark-browed with anger about it 
all. 'Tis true that the low-caste youth was handsome 
to look upon, straight as a coco-palm, with eyes like a 
katafa bird's. But such things do not make up for 
the lack of great blood and the pride of the gods in one's 
heart." 

" No, certainly not," said I, as O Le Tao's wrinkled 
physiognomy revealed the pride he felt over those old 
ancestors that he claimed. Then he continued : 

" One night, when we were all fast asleep in our 
village by Tewaka, we did all leap suddenly up from 
our sleeping mats, for lo! the conch-shells of the gods 
in shadowland were blowing! True enough the gods 
and goddesses were rushing about the forests in great 
anger! We did know that something terrible had oc- 
curred, for their voices sounded like to thunder and 
echoed to the mountain tops. As all my people did 
rush from their huts, the gods disappeared in the moon- 
light, but we were all just in time to see a canoe being 
fast paddled across the bay out to sea! Ah, Papalagi, 
'twas great insult; for it was that low-caste youth Ko- 
Ko, for that was his name, and Lao-mio, the high- 
caste maid, in flight together. For a moment we gazed 
dumb-struck, the horror of the scene before us being 



SAMOA: FIRST IMPRESSIONS 33 

on the faces of all the chiefs. And the O tausalas (high- 
class girls and women) weep to see so wicked a sight." 

Saying the foregoing, O Le Tao placed his wrinkled 
hand to his brow and gazed in deep reflection on the 
scene that was apparently before his memory. Then, 
as his old wife handed him a goblet of kava (he swal- 
lowed it at a gulp), he cast his eyes skyward and con- 
tinued : 

*' Suddenly we all recover our senses, and go rush- 
ing down to the shore. But it was too late. The cun- 
ning Ko-Ko had severed the sennet tackles and had cast 
all our canoes adrift, so that we could not follow him. 
He was very low-caste too, for, as the canoe turned 
round by the promontory, he did turn his face to us 
and waved his paddle jeeringly! And though my kins- 
men and many of the tausalas did dance with much 
rage on the shore at this act of Ko-Ko's, I did myself 
keep calm, as great chief should keep ; crossing my arms 
on my breast, I did spit seaward. It was then that we 
all turned, and rushing way back to the village we looked 
into the hut wherein Lao-mio had slept. Lo, master, we 
found all her clothes — she had left them behind ! 'Twas 
sad enough, this act of an erstwhile modest tausala maid, 
but we did all beat our chests when we find the maid 
had left a note behind her too, and this note said : * O 
stink chiefs of Samoa, I go away with my true love 
Ko-Ko, for his eyes are like unto the gods! And I 
would have you know, O meddling people of the vil- 
lage, that my children shall bless me for having so god- 
like a husband ! ' 

" At reading this insult about the godliness of a low- 
caste, we did all beat our limbs and bodies till the blood 
fell. And as we did this act we heard the mighty, far- 
off voices of the gods cursing our village, to think 
that a high-caste tausala should elope with a cheeky 



34 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

low-caste like Ko-Ko. The next day the great toas 
(high-chiefs) went away in sorrow to the sacred altars 
at Manono, and, paying obeisance to the autiis (priests), 
asked them to find out what the gods would have them 
do about the whole matter. After many libations of 
ceremonial kava and sacred offerings to the God of 
gods, the vassals of shadowland did say : * You disgraced 
people of Manono must away go into the forest by Lauii; 
and when you are there you must play sweetest music 
on the vuvu and the magic conch-shells while the moon 
shines over the sea. It is then that the spirits will hear, 
and will tell you what is best to be done to enable you 
to catch the wicked lovers." 

Saying this, O Le Tao paused a moment, then, swell- 
ing his tattooed chest to its full proportions, and with 
his arms crossed high thereon, he gazed majestic-wise 
upon Cenerita, his wife, and my humble self. Then, 
turning his head and face round in the direction of the 
mountains, he gazed in such a manner that it was plainly 
evident he was about to divulge something reflecting 
no small amount of glory upon his person. He con- 
tinued : 

"When the village did hear that which the gods 
wished to be done, they all meet by the sacred banyans, 
and say, * Who ? Who in our village am great enough 
to respond to the wishes of the gods?' And, Papalagi, 
I would have you know that, whilst this talk go on, 
I sit in full humbleness behind the assembled tribe in 
deep shadow of breadfruit trees.'* (I nodded my head, 
intimating that I quite understood O Le Tao's humility.) 
Then he coughed, and proceeded : " For awhile I keep 
my face bowed towards the earth; but still they call 
in one great voice again, and yet again ! And so, know- 
ing well that one cannot cast the power, the glory, and 
majesty from one's own person, I slowly did arise, and. 



SAMOA: FIRST IMPRESSIONS 35 

standing forth into the clear light of the moon's full- 
ness, I say, ' Who is this that calls aloud for O Le 
Tao?' 

" And, in this wise, was I chosen above all others, 

Papalagi! 

" That same night I and Lao-mio's father, who was 
a kinsman of mine, did go away to seek the magic caves 
where dwelt the vassals of the gods of the underworld. 
When we arrived by the sea-shore we perceive four 
young coco-palms growing, that had not been there be- 
fore. And, as we blew the conch-shells, the four coco- 
palms did commence to quiver in the light of the moon, 
the plumes and bunches of nuts that sprouted at the 
tops starting to swell visibly. Still we did blow and 
blow the vuvu and conch-shell; and still the coco-nuts 
swell and swell till they gleam in the moonlight, and 
lo! they were the big faces of the gods! We did then 
notice that the trunks of the palms were their legs. My 
kinsman and I did lean one against the other, so great 
was our surprise to hear their voices. For, lifting their 
shivering arms to the sky, they say, ' O great O Le Tao, 
and he too who am shadowed in your presence.' *' 

" I suppose the gods alluded to your kinsman? " said 
I, interrupting the old chief. 

" That am so, Papalagi," said Tao, as I struck a match 
on my knee and intimated by a nod of my head that 

1 wished him to proceed. Then he continued in this 
wise : ** The gods looked down upon us and said, ' If 
you would once more get Lao-mio the maid back to 
your village, you must go along the coast and approach 
the caves wherein dwells the beautiful goddess Fafuto. 
She will stand in your presence, and then lead you 
across the sea to Savaii Isle so that you may get at the 
maid Lao-mio.' 

" At saying these things they did look upon myself 



36 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

and my kinsman with deep concern shining like a shadow 
on moonlit waters in their eyes, and then, again said : 
* You are mortals, and so we would tell you that, what- 
ever you do, you must not gaze upon the goddess Pafu- 
to's face or form with amorous eyes, neither may you 
let your hearts hold such thoughts as one may have when 
gazing upon a beauteous mortal maid/ 

" Well, Papalagi, this wish of the gods did not trouble 
us ; but pulling my tappa robe around me I did at once 
commence to go with my kinsman to the spot where 
we might see the great goddess. When we did at length 
come to the sea, the moonlight lay fast asleep on the 
deep waters. The o le manu ao (Samoan nightingale), 
hearing our approach, started singing its midnight song 
to its favourite goddess Langi (heaven). We listened 
until our hearts were charmed very much, so much so 
that we both felt that our hearts were fit to urge our 
voices to speak out those things which the gods had 
told. And so I stepped forward, and say, * O le sanga 
oa e magi langi.' At hearing me speak, the o le manu 
at once cease its song. Silence did fall and run on 
silvery moonlight feet across the forest. Then, lo, a 
shadow fell slantwise across the lagoon that faced the 
sleeping ocean. We turn our eyes, and there, stepping 
forth from her big shore cave, was the goddess Pafuto! 

"Ah, Papalagi, never before did my eyes behold so 
beautiful a goddess. Her raiment was made from the 
finest wove seaweed. Her hair tresses, falling like a 
golden river on the sunset mountains, made a wonderful 
mat for her nicest of feet." 

At this moment the old chief's story was interrupted 
by the arrival of Cenerita's fiance, a handsome youth 
named Tamariki. As the youth sat at Cenerita's feet, 
O Le Tao gave him a freezing look that he should in- 
trude at such a moment. Then the old man placed his 



SAMOA; FIRST IMPRESSIONS 37 

hand archwise over his eyes in some memory of the 
dazzling beauty of the goddess Pafuto, and continued: 
" The goddess gaze on us with magical light stealing 
through her eyes, then she plucked a reed from the 
lagoon's edge and blew out a note of sweetest music. 
At once the o le manu ao commenced to sing again, and 
out of the cavern to the right of us came floating a tau- 
mualua (native boat). My kinsman and I at once did 
that which the goddess commanded, for we at once 
jump into the taumualua. As we sat in the magic 
canoe, she did softly step into it and give a magic sign. 
It was with much sorrow that I did notice that the 
taumualua carry no paddles, for, Papalagi, I feel that 
the goddess may be for voyaging beneath the sea in- 
stead of moving over the waters. But just as I did 
look into my kinsman's eyes in sorrow, the goddess did 
stand upright between us. She was as tall as a mast 
and as straight. Uplifting her robes and stretching her 
curved arms out like unto sails of a ship, the night wind 
did at once commence to softly blow. It was a wonder- 
ful sight to see her robes gently fill out like big sails 
to the blowing airs as the magical canoe start to move 
silently across the moonlit waters. 

"As we did glide over the sea we could distinctly 
see her shadow reflected in the water beside us, beside 
the imaged moon that was full of brightness. Ah, Papa- 
lagi, it was this uprightness of the goddess that did 
bring about the fall of my kinsman. Alas, as she be- 
came like to sails of a taumualua, because of the up- 
lifting of her robes there beside us, her graceful limbs 
were revealed to half a finger's length above the knees. 
Truly, Papalagi, it was a sight to tempt even the gods, 
let alone us poor mortals as we sat there, one each side 
of that wondrous figure, my cheek almost touching the 
right flank, and my kinsman's the left knee. 



38 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

" Knowing deep in our hearts what the gods had 
warned us about, we tried, more than I may tell, not 
to behold or dream of her gracefulness and the secret 
glory of such womanly loveliness, as we could have 
done had she been a mortal. 

'' So, Papalagi, I did perspire overmuch through try- 
ing to kill those thoughts that will afflict us poor mor- 
tals. I sighed and prayed, and even sang a short lotu- 
song (hymn) to help stifle those thoughts that dare not 
rise from my heart. It was during this misery of mine 
in endeavouring to keep faith with the gods and our 
promises that I did notice my kinsman breathing heav- 
ily. I look long upon him, and then see that he was 
near to being fauti (in a fit) for trying also to stay his 
deeper thoughts. Much fright came to my soul at see- 
ing the state of one whom I loved much and who was 
near to me in blood. I did look eagerly across the 
sea, and with much sorrow notice that we were still 
more than a mile from the lonely shores of Savaii Isle. 
The promontory was just visible far away to the north. 

"'What shall we do? What shall we do?' I mut- 
ter as I did see my kinsman's form writhe in the agony 
of his desires. 

" At this moment the goddess slightly swerved her 
outstretched arms around to the north-east so that she 
might catch the fairer wind. In this sudden action of 
hers, her mass of beautiful hair fell about our shoul- 
ders, for she had slowly moved her head likewise, so 
that her face should be turned to the south-west; so 
that, while her left arm point north-east, her face turn 
south-west. Whether it was this movement of the chang- 
ing winds that made her tresses fall and prove my kins- 
man's undoing, I know not. But it is certain that, as 
her masses of hair fell tenderwise on his face and shoul- 
ders, her eyes, inclined sideways, gazed on him and 



SAMOA: FIRST IMPRESSIONS 39 

on me in such a way as surely goddess never gazed to 
tempt mortals before. And then, alas, whether the knees 
moved through the soft swaying of the canoe or through 
the sudden veering of the night wind, I know not, but 
my kinsman's lips did suddenly touch the left knee of 
the goddess! 

" In a moment, as though lightning swept across the 
moonlit waters, a flash of light leapt from the goddess's 
eyes — the canoe wherein we sat vanished — was as noth- 
ing ! 

" For longer time I did swim and swim. And when 
at length I sat on the shore, only the great goddess 
Pafuto sat beside me! It was then I knew that my 
sad kinsman had been unable to control his mortal 
thoughts, and so was lying somewhere dead at the bot- 
tom of the moana iili (the blue sea). Gazing upon me, 
the goddess said, * O Le Tao, thou art a great chief. 
Thou hast seen mucher beauty of the goddesses of Langi 
in their true nakedness, and thou hast proven that thou 
lovest the light of heaven in their eyes only.' 

" At hearing this, I felt much pride. Yet, true enough, 
my heart did quake overmuch, for well I knew how near 
I was to falling as my kinsman fell." 

The old Samoan chief ceased for a moment. The 
night winds blew softly, drifting the scents of ripe 
lemons and breaths of decaying flowers to our nostrils. 
Cenerita, under the influence of her parent's story, 
peered into the forest glooms. The grand chiefess, 
Madame O Le Tao, puffed her cigarette and revealed 
by the erect pose of her scraggy neck that she realized 
the import of her position as O Le Tao's faithful spouse. 
The old chief, continuing his story, said : 

" O Papalagi, when the goddess Pafuto said that to 
me which I have just told you, I feel much proud and 
thankful for her mercy. I well knew that she know 



40 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

in her heart that I too had been near to breaking my 
promise when the taumualua swayed. But, still, she 
know what great soul O Le Tao am !— so she say no 
more. Indeed, it was at this moment that she did bend 
forward, softly touching me on the shoulder with her 
lips, and so did make me taboo (a sacred personage). 
When I did get back to the village and told the chiefs 
all that had happened, they, though much grieved to 
hear of my kinsman's death, thought little more of the 
flight of the lovers, Lao-mio and K-ko-ko. They did 
at once prepare great festival to celebrate the glory that 
the goddess Pafuto had sent back such a great one as 
I to still dwell amongst them." 

When he had made an end, the old chief lifted his 
shoulders majestically, surveying me keenly the while 
with his dim eyes. It was then that I realized how 
those island chiefs and the ancestors of knights and 
kings of all lands had first gained their power, their 
possessions, and mighty insignia. I instinctively knew 
that not only in those wild isles were men gifted with 
an imagination that made them have firm belief in all 
that they dreamed of over their own greatness. I half 
envied O Le Tao's gifts — gifts he had so well utilized. 
For as he sat there I saw that he was enthroned on 
the heights of magnificent imagination and lived in the 
light of respect from all men's eyes. 

Such was O Le Tao's story of the goddess Pafuto, 
as told me while the Samoan night doves moaned mu- 
sically in the tamanu trees. 

During my stay the semi-heathen chief took me to 
many interesting places, showing me spots in the for- 
ests and along the shores where once some great tribal 
batde had been fought, or some cave wherein, on certain 
occasions, gods and goddesses met in midnight council. 
After that, O Le Tao took Cenerita, Tamariki, and myself 



SAMOA: FIRST IMPRESSIONS 41 

to a night dance in the shore village near Monono. I 
am assured that Man cannot improve on Nature's handi^ 
work in building roomy halls for secret congregations 
of human beings who would indulge in heathenish capers 
that endeavour to express the inherent impulses of man- 
kind. The gnarled pillars and flower-bespangled cur- 
tains of that wonderful forest opera-house, decorated 
by Nature's artless, silent-moving hands, left nothing 
to be desired even by the most critical Maestro who 
might happen to perform on the wide, branch-roofed 
stage. The moon hanging in the vaulted roof of space 
over the trees, was sufficient for all purposes. The acous- 
tic properties were perfect, the neighbouring hills echo- 
ing back each orchestral crescendo and each encore in 
obsequious, weird diminuendos. In the intervals of si- 
lence it would often seem that I heard some phantom-like 
accompaniment, and faint encores coming from the gods 
of shadowland, ere the barbaric orchestra of fifes, bone 
fiutes, and drums once more recommenced its terrific 
ensemble. I was more than astonished to see O Le 
Tao suddenly throw his stiff legs out as he commenced 
to dance with an elderly chiefess of enormous girth, 
A hundred dusky Eyes seemed to tempt a hundred will- 
ing Adams as the sarong-like robes swished to tripping 
feet when the whole audience began to dance before 
the footlights of the stars! With the characteristic re- 
straint of my race, I clenched my fist in a great mental, 
virtuous effort, but only to fail through my miserable 
fallibility, for, opening my closed eyelids, I stared with 
unblushing effrontery at the prima donna's exquisitely 
woven concert-robe — the equivalent of the South Sea 
fig-leaf ! 

She still danced on, a fascinating being, with the 
golden light of some witchery in her eyes. Her clustered 
tresses were distinctly visible by the pale glimmerings 



42 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

of the moon that silvered the huge colonnades of the 
stage. And, all the while she danced, she sang an ear- 
haunting melody, swaying her limbs, a scarlet blossom 
nestling in the hollow of her bosom. "Aue! Aue! 
Talofa!" came from the lips of the tiers of gay war- 
riors and great high chiefs who squatted in the royal 
boxes. When the handsome young chief, Tusita Le Salu 

the head-dancer's affianced — stepped down from his 

perch in the breadfruit tree on the stage, the hubbub 
was immense. He at once faced the dancer in a god- 
like style, and commenced to sing a duet with her. They 
danced and tumbled about in a marvellous way. And 
when she lifted the pretty blue sarong robe up to her 
knees, I distinctly heard the aged O Le Tao groan 
through some pathetic realization over his departed 
youth. Yet the most fastidious could have gazed with 
delight on that scene: the whole thing was fairy-like, 
the girl's dancing creating an atmosphere that was full 
of poetic mystery and nothing more. 

The festival's orchestra helped in no small way to 
enhance the poetic beauty of the whole scene. The bam- 
boo flutes and bone-clappers (made from the skeletons 
of dead chiefs) played a suitable accompaniment to the 
many " turns " that I witnessed. The special music 
that was performed on this occasion was something 
between a Marquesan Tapriata and a Samoan Siva dance. 
Though I cannot reproduce the moaning of the re- 
sounding seas on the shore below or the echoes in the 
mountains, I give here an impressionist piano-forte ar- 
rangement of the wild music I heard that night. 

It is many years since O Le Tao departed for the 
legendary splendours of his beloved shadowland: that 
much I certainly know. For, on a voyage bound for 
the Malay Archipelago, not so long ago, my ship put 
into Samoa, and, standing in the small village cemetery 



SAMOA: FIRST IMPRESSIONS 43 

near Safuta, I gazed in sorrow on a little wooden cross, 
and distinctly made out these words, written in English 
and Samoan: 

" Here lieth the mortal remains of High Chief 

O LE TAO 
Died, aged 83, in the year of our Lord, 1903." 
" In my Father's House are Many Mansions." 

Gazing on that grave, I realized the briefness of all 
living things, be they great or small. There was some- 
thing pathetic too in so humble a tomb for one who 
had dwelt in such imaginative splendour. For the is- 
land nightingale still sang its passionate song in the 
breadfruit, as the same aged tamanu trees sighed in 
their glory by the sea. But, doubtless, the children of 
a new age still whisper his name in wonder, telling 
how he was favoured by the goddess Pafuto for the 
majesty and inborn virtue of his mighty heart. 

When I left O Le Tao's hospitable homestead it was 
with feelings of regret, and it was a long time before 
I returned to Samoa. Brief as was my stay with that 
old chief, it was of long enough duration to influence 
me; indeed, I might say that I became a semi-pagan 
too. Cenerita no longer pointed in vain to the moonlit 
mountains, attempting to show my blind eyes the 
shadow-gods that she declared were stalking across the 
moon-ridden hills — I too saw them ! I became a veri- 
table heathen. My personality became robed in the weird 
atmosphere of pagan dreams. Civilization fell from me 
like an immaculate tall hat knocked off one's head with 
a brick. The stern, dull, drab colour of the world 
changed for me. The bright-winged katafa, the brown- 
robed O Le niao bird, and bronzed-winged Samoan doves 
became warm-throated goddesses sitting in the bread- 



44 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

fruit trees over our heads, their eyes bright with dis- 
covery as I played heathenish melodies and Cenerita sang. 
I was happy enough, for I lived in a small native house 
all alone; it had two rooms and was allotted me by the 
kindness of O Le Tao. That hut was my tiny grand 
ancestral hall. Just beyond my threshold waved the 
plumes of my coat-of-arms — a coco-nut tree crowned 
with a tawny bunch of fruit. My clock, far away over 
the wide waters of my blue demesne, chimed each sun- 
set on the wave! Sometimes, when I played my violin 
far into the night, I saw ghostly shadows moving under 
my lovely garden trees; then I knew that I had awak- 
ened the wild people of another world, who came to 
listen with delight to the Tusitala of the " magic-stick " 
from the lands beyond the setting suns. Sometimes I 
would invite Tamariki, Cenerita, and a few more sweet- 
minded Samoan children to spend the evening with me. 
They would sing part-songs, melodies of which none 
knew the composer, wonderful strains that had been 
mysteriously blown into some old Samoan musician's soul 
from the moonlit ocean caves. Crude as some of those 
songs were, I heard the true note. Metaphorically speak- 
ing, I threw all my music studies away. Away with 
such rubbish! No western music ever thrilled me as I 
was thrilled by the haunting poetry of wild sweet sounds 
such as I heard on those Samoan nights. It often seemed 
unbelievable, dream-like, when I sat on a fibre mat be- 
fore the limelight of the stars and whiffed the odours 
of wild flowers and listened to the perfect strains of 
that great University of Samoan elemental musical art. 
Often when I heard the final chant of some musical 
genius I would arise and cheer loudly, as the rough, tat- 
tooed audience beat their drums and whistled their en- 
cores. Sometimes a sun-varnished maid would stand 
before the forest audience and sing some masterpiece 



SAMOA: FIRST IMPRESSIONS 45 



Piano. 



MARQUESAN TAPRIATA. 

( Dance ) A. S. M. 



Andante. 



3 



:^3E[^ 



45_^. 



s 



-=H- 



ff 



-»• -(■- 



41^ f^^ 



^^ 



1 i =1-- 



^E^ 



ESE 



-=v- 



^ 



^^=!f 



:^=3H= 



^=^ 



*' »z/ Drum effects. 

— p 1 — I « — 



^-^. 



->-:ffi 



fc^prtt 



&^-r-i»— £ 



-I 1*- 



^ i:uj '^^ 



■I 1^! 1 1- 



"Uiis^ 



b 1 .■*i 1 ■ '^ 



=J^ 



=^=a* 



«*=r 



^^ 



3=s= 



A 



'-'^^P=^- 



•*- 



.«^^ '1^ 



-hfep- 



^ ' ^- lar— ^ Mr r > 



•ff* !* — , m ^ 0.fa—m- 



il 



etc. 



:rn: 



w •-»-»»—»- 



H 1 — > (- 



^-*J 




46 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

that expressed all the impassioned melody of music's 
far-away, forgotten childhood. I would hear the sea- 
winds sigh their long-drawn accompaniment across the 
lovely wild-stringed harp of forest trees; a cloud would 
pass away from the moon and so lift a great silver 
curtain of ghostly light from the leafy, gnarled colon- 
nades. And then the dusky, star-eyed prima donna of 
the forest would bow with a grace that was seemingly 
quite out of place as one listened to the wild hubbub 
of the fierce-eyed, tawny men who waved their arms as 
they cheered from the orchestral stalls of jungle, bush, 
and fern. Such sights, such experiences might well turn 
the brain of a much more sober head than I claim to 
possess. 



I'd sooner be a pagan in this hut, 

Wherein the singing spheres creep thro' my door, 

And dance and dance upon my bedroom floor, 

As 'tween the sheets I watch with eyes unshut, 

And on my bed-rail, wailing o'er the din, 

A gnat plays on its tiny violin ! 

I'm wrapt in some fine madness of a sense 
That robes me with the magic of those things 
That lend imagination lyric-wings, 
Imparadising all my dreams intense. 
'Twill fade away, I know, and once again 
I shall half-weep — to find I am quite sane ! 

Alas ! Fve worshipped stricken things called " Men " ; 
I've travelled down their groves and found their light 
Hid magic splendours of the glorious night 
Of things unseen. And now? — clear to my ken, 
The sad old trees are whispering on the wind 
The harmonies that maestros seek to find! 

Last night those old trees said : " Oh, brother, stay ! 
That song you played just now we seem to know, 
We heard it sung a million years ago ! " 



SAMOA: FIRST IMPRESSIONS 47 

I said " It's mine ! " They sighed. I passed away ; 

And even the flowers along the lonely track 

Said: "Poor, brief thing with feet and weary back." 

Twas then the River, old and full of tears. 
Stopped by the hills and called, inquired of me — 
" Comrade, is this the right way to the sea ? " 
I kissed its breast, I soothed its wandering fears 
As on we tramped; then, at the close of day, 
It said " Good-bye, old friend," and crept away. 

And now? — a beauteous melody I hear. 
As constellations tumbling from the skies. 
Are dancing on the floor before my eyes; 
Nor do I dream at all, for, sitting near, 
A gnat plays perfectly the sweeping strain 
That Man's ambitious mind strives for — in vain! 

I could cry out in spite to think for years 

I've sought applause, played to sad men and kings, 

To find, at last, the universe, of all things, 

Lo, hires a gnat to make the starry spheres 

Trip to and fro, go gaily o'er and o'er 

In perfect time across my bedroom floor! 

And still they dance and dance, and still the trees 

Sigh grand adagios as that maestro 

Sits on my bed-rail sweeping from its bow 

The music of the grand infinite seas. 

Till 'neath the sheets I hide my head for shame 

To think, alas, a gnat achieves such fame! 

After leaving Q Le Tao I came across a kind of South 
Sea Mozart. He was a young Samoan of about four- 
teen years. He possessed a cheap German fiddle, and on 
its frayed strings extemporized melodies of the weirdest 
beauty. 

" What's that song, Pango-Pango ? *' said I. 

He shook his curly head and said, " Me knower not, 
nice songer camer me out of win' (wind) of the forest, 
from moan of sea-cave and stars of big sky-land." 



48 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

Saying that, he once more placed his fiddle Ccello 
style) between his knees, and performed a melody that 
might well have haunted the brain of a Brahms, a Schu- 
ber't, or an Elgar. He was a handsome little fellow, 
with beautiful bird-like eyes. He was absolutely un- 
conscious of the gift he possessed. He seemed, to me, 
the sun-varnished, perfect-limbed personification of Mu- 
sic itself, Music's youth, light-winged, passionate, beau- 
tiful with elemental sweetness, the ecstasy of melancholy 
and inartistic carelessness. He played to his shadow in 
the lagoons. There w^as a fascinating witchery in all 
his ways. Yet I doubt whether such a soul as Pango's 
could ever develop into that stage of music which men 
call ''Classic." His genius was the genius of youth, 
and could never grow old, and, rusting, develop into 
the austere ossification of the fashionable musical cran- 
ium, that awful unvibrant curvature of the musical spine 
that scorns the melody of beauteous youth. Pango was 
as natural in his art as are the flowers and birds on the 
hillside. He could never have attained that decrepitude 
of imagination that invests itself in a robe of artistries, 
making sad old men and women imagine they hear the 
beautiful by having their unresponsive spines forcibly 
shaken by the thunderous crash, the multitudinous rum- 
ble and groan of artificial musical art. Ah, memory of 
Pango! Though a true musician, he would have been 
nowhere as a music-hall composer. Nor could he place 
suggestive words to music. He lacked British spiciness, 
too. But I vow that he did put the stars and forest 
streams to music as he sat out on the promontory's edge 
by moonlight, looking like some young Grecian god as 
he hummed and played a strain that sounded like in- 
finity in pain. To my gjeat regret I lost sight of Pango- 
Pango for quite a year after that. The fact is, I left 
Samoa. How I left, and of the wonders of the sea, I 
will tell in the next chapter. 



CHAPTER II. TROUBADOURING IN TAHITI 

I ship with a genuine Old-time Crew — Poetic Night- 
mares — Tattooed Manuscripts of the Seas ! — I learn the 
Art of Forcible Expression — Tar-pots — The Storm — 
Washed Overboard — Papeete — Pokara — How the first 
Coco-nuts came — Star Myths. 

THERE are many sceptics who may disbelieve my 
account of the crew of the " Zangwahee," but 
away with such people! 

About a week after losing sight of Pango-Pango I 
went across to Savaii Isle. I had heard that there was 
an old sailing-ship anchored off Matautu, and that she 
was bound on a long voyage across the Pacific. I shall 
never forget the wonder I felt on first sighting the 
" Zangwahee " as she lay out in the bay. " Looks like 
an old Spanish galleon," I thought, as I stared at the 
yellowish canvas sails and the antiquated rigging imaged 
in the dark-toned waters of the bay. For a moment I 
eyed the outlines of that craft with intense curiosity. 
The beautifully carv^en emblematical figure-head (a god- 
dess with outstretched praying hands) kept my eyes spell- 
bound. The poetry of the artist's brain, the magic that 
had inspired the human hands to carve such outlines, 
seemed to enter my soul, as the light of the setting sun 
touched the safiFron-hued sails and glimmered across the 
silent, blue lagoons. The movements of a man's form 
on her deck made me realize the truth; for in some 
credulous fancy I had half thought that she was some 
long-lost treasure-trove ship that had lain there for cen- 
turies ! 

49 



50 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

"Where you bound for?'* I cried, hailing a weird- 
looking seadog who had suddenly stared over the bul- 
wark side. 

Placing his hand to his lips, he yelled back, " Bound 
for Tarhoyti ! *' 

" Where the h 's Tarhoyti? " I yelled back. But 

no response came; the old sailor simply pulled his dilap- 
idated cap over his eyes and spat melancholy-wise into 
the ocean. In a few moments I had taken one of the 
beach canoes and paddled out to the "Zangwahee." 
Clambering up the rope gangway, I went on board. As 
I stood on deck, I stared in astonishment. The crew, 
who were busy coiling up the ropes on deck, all stood 
up, and looked like rows of mummies clad in rags. 
They were wrinkled and sun-tanned to a yellowish hue ! 
They might have been the crew of the ** Flying Dutch- 
man," so weird did they look, those old-time sailormen. 
And talk about blasphemous oaths, when I meekly asked 
if they thought there was any chance of a job! 

" Captain Vanderdecken aboard ? " I said, hoping to 
break the ice by such an evident bit of humour on my 
part. One old sailorman, who had a Rip Van Winkle 
look about him, stared at my blue serge suit of the nine- 
teenth century, and then, touching his cap respectful- 
like, said, " Thar's the Ole Man aft; cawn*t ye see 
im : 

Looking aft, I got a bit of a shock, I can tell you. 
The skipper looked as ancient as his ship! He had a 
monstrous grey beard and O, the expression on his face I 
I might have made a bolt over the side but for the fact 
that he had already spotted me. Going straight aft, I 
looked him in the face and said, " Any chance of a job, 
sir?" 

Metaphorically speaking, he picked me up by the heels, 
smelt me, looked at my teeth, screwed my neck round 



TROUBADOURING IN TAHITI 51 

twice, examined my spine, thumped me on the ribs, and 
said, "Um!" 

I fancied I saw the dust of ages on his bony neck as 
a whiff of wind came across the Pacific and divided 
the tresses of his beard. Then he looked down on the 
deck and said, " Wha's thawt ? " 

** My vioHn, sir," I responded, as curiosity toned 
down much of the funk I was in. 

" Ho ho ! He he ! Haw haw ! '* he yelled, as he 
gazed on the deck at my fiddle-case. In obedience to his 
commands, I at once took my instrument from its case 
and commenced to play! It was like seeing God smile 
as his wrinkled face lit up with delight. " Yoom'U do," 
he said. Then, taking hold of me by the scruff of the 
neck, he pitched me headlong down the alley-way into 
the dingy cuddy (saloon). Alighting gently on a rather 
soft-plushed settee of prehistoric pattern, I murmured my 
thanks. You see, I had sailed on sailing ships and well 
knew that the treatment I was receiving was of marked 
courtesy in comparison with that which I had experienced 
whilst on the Clipper Lines. 

So did I become a member of a crew who, I 
should think, were the last of the genuine old sea- 
dogs. 

Next day the yards were squared to a stiff, fair breeze, 
and to the strain of some old Spanish chanty I found 
myself bound for Tahiti! My description of this voy- 
age and the crew may appear like some gross exaggera- 
tion; but I can assure the reader that I could not possi- 
bly describe that crew and their ancient craft without 
appearing to exaggerate. I even remember the thrill 
that went through me when I saw the ancient-looking 
yellowish sails belly to the Pacific wind as we passed 
beyond the barrier reefs and caught the outer foam. 
But alas ! the thrill passed away when I sat down in the 



52 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

forecastle with those marvellous old shellbacks and had 
my first meal. 

I might say that the salt-horse and biscuits of the 
" Zangwahee " were as ancient as the crew appeared to 
be. Perhaps it was natural enough that there should 
be an affinity between the ancient members of that crew 
(a few members belonged to my own century) and the 
horses that had apparently roamed the primeval Arabian 
plains! Only a great poet could describe the antique 
" Menu " of that forecastle. I have a brilliant imagi- 
nation, and so it was easy enough for me to imagine 
that the corn that those biscuits were made of had ri- 
pened in Assyrian cornfields ! I only had to eat a foc'sle 
biscuit to enter at once the realms of enchantment. Just 
as good wine intoxicates the brain, the fumes of those 
cast-iron mouldy biscuits created a gassy atmosphere in 
my stomach and inspired my brain with weird poetic 
fancies. I imagined I saw Ruth standing amid the " alien 
corn"; and, taking another nibble, I had visions of old 
rivers flowing by ancient walls, and of the desert towers 
of the Pharaohs! I saw tired harvest girls, sickle in 
hand, sleeping by their garnered heaps under Assyrian 
suns. Yes, reader, such dreams were mine when I had 
poetic nightmares after partaking of the " Zangwahee's " 
forecastle menu of salt-horse and hard-tack. 

Though I could fill reams with the wonders of the 
" Zangwahee's " menu and all that my brain fancied, 
I have only space to set down the stern facts that apply 
to the " Zangwahee's " crew. As I've said, they were 
hairy-chested men, real seadogs of another age. To see 
their thick-bearded lips and their crooked noses, as they 
sang and climbed aloft, made me half fancy that I had 
been blown across a century into the Nelson period. 
Notwithstanding the old skipper's rough exterior, I found 
him quite human. Surely few young men who have 



TROUBADOURING IN TAHITI 53 

gone to sea have had the experiences I have had, for 
that old skipper would get blind drunk, and, lying in 
his bunk, roar mighty encores as I played selections on 
my violin to him! He loved sea hymns, and, when I 
played ** For those in peril on the sea," he would mum- 
ble deep in his beard, his eyes becoming wet with tears ! 
Though I liked that strange old captain (and I believed 
he liked me), my chief delight was to come off watch 
and sit in the forecastle with the crew as they tugged 
their beards, shook their fists, cursed the mate, the skip- 
per, and the Universe! As they sat on their sea-chests 
in the dim-lit forecastle, they looked exactly what they 
were — genuine high priests who worshipped at the altar 
of monstrous yarns and the best rum! 

Some of them had fine, fierce, kind eyes, and bearded 
lips that never tired of yelling forth the wild mystery 
of the sea and oaths of inexhaustible beauty! They 
were able to express, in one neat phrase, the pictorial 
ruggedness of their adventurous, unholy careers. They 
were true sea-poets — ^possessing forcible descriptive ge- 
nius that enabled one to conjure up weird visions of the 
wondrous countries they had seen and the " charming " 
women they had known. And I vow that they made 
their verse scan, subtle verse devoid of any direct in- 
fluence from the idyllic school of romanticism. Some 
hailed from 'Frisco, Japan, Callao, New York, London 
Town, Norway, etc., so there was a splendid mixture of 
the world's maritime literature. Consequently that fore- 
castle's audience made a terrific school of the " Sturm 
und Drang" persuasion, a school that fairly hummed 
with the unrestraint of Rousseau's Confessions, at the 
same time favouring Mallarme and Browning for con- 
centrated expression. A forcible accent came on their 
rhymes too ! One epic punch-rhyme would make one's 
eyes see stars! What hairy fists they had! But those 



54 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

older hands seldom quarrelled. O Le Tao's frame was 
as bare as an egg when compared to the hieroglyphics 
and tattooed sea-heraldry inscribed on their carcases. I 
had never seen such living art before, such brazen dis- 
play as they revealed when they sat by their bunks 
and undressed in that forecastle. Watching by the mingy 
oil-lamp that hung from the fo'c'sle roof-beam, I seemed 
to be witnessing some life-like, wondrous Madame Tus- 
saud's waxwork of the sea, as one by one they pulled 
their coats and vests off, revealing their herculean, mus- 
cular frames in the nude ! What a sight I beheld ! — the 
tattooed storied-history of their adventurous careers ! On 
one old sea-weary sailor's chest was engraved, in curves 
of red and blue, a goddess-like girl, the one great roman- 
tic love of his youth. She was exquisitely designed, and 
one unloosed tress fell down to her bare shoulders. I 
was fascinated as, leaning forward, I made out the 
faint words inscribed beneath the feet — " My Lucille," 
then again, over the crown of hair, " Mizpah.'* Others 
were veritable living volumes, depicting all those things 
that influence sailormen in the seaports of the world : 
shapely-limbed maids of Shanghai, Tokio, Callao, 'Frisco, 
New York, and London Town adorned their figures. 
" My True love Harriet," Lucille, Unita, Mary Ann, 
Bill's Alice, Ducky-Sarah, Angelina, Una, Fan-Tan, all 
were there, pug-nosed, and some, alas, indelicately un- 
derclad. I do not exaggerate when I say that I was in- 
itiated into the storied, tragical history of the oceans, 
of wrecks, the morals and poetic characteristics of strange 
women-kind in distant lands, and the shattered hopes 
of faithful sailormen, as I studied those weather-beaten 
manuscripts of the seas. For many of those tattooesque 
designs were sentimental symbols telHng of fidelity in 
love, some deep faith in "Alice, dated 1879," and lo, 
the recorded disillusionment with the later date — i88c 



TROUBADOURING IN TAHITI 55 

the design of a heart with a dagger through it, reveal- 
ing something of the bitterness brought to those old sail- 
ors' hearts through the faithlessness of those old loves 
whose names v^ere tattooed on their massive, hairy chests 
and muscular arms! It would indeed be a weird chap- 
ter of memoirs that told of my brazen explorations, of 
my astonished exclamations, as I curiously scanned and 
studied the tattooesque history of those violent old man- 
uscripts. Many of the inscriptions had faded with age. 
Old Hans, who had sailed the seas fifty years, before 
I was born, would yarn for hours as I frequently in- 
terrupted to stare at his chest, his arms, wrists, and 
fingers. 

"Who was she?" I'd ask. 

He would shake his head sadly and tell me how Unita 
jilted him; how Kum-Kum slept in Tokio, and Leila in 
Kensal Green, and Singa-Samber in some old cemetery 
in the South Seas. Once he put forth his tarry thumb- 
nail, and by the mingy gleams of the fo'c'sle's hanging 
oil-lamp helped me to trace out a faint figure on his big 
wrinkled chest, and, lo ! I plainly discerned the face, legs, 
and shoulders of some old pal hanging on a foreign gib- 
bet! I often thought that I must be dreaming it all, 
as they sat there in the shadows, yarning away, as the 
Pacific combers banged against the vessel's side, and we 
rolled along on our lonely course bound for old Papeete. 
It took some time before that crew acknowledged me 
as one of their legitimate members, for they were often 
cantankerous devils. 

Ah, memory of it all — and my first oath ! For, though 
I had been many voyages and roughed it " on the walla- 
by " with old sundowners in Australia and New Zea- 
land, I had not blossomed into a true sea-poet of the 
great unromantic school of the oceans. No unfledged 
prima donna, no debutante, ever rehearsed her first part 



56 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

as I did, I know. I'd show them how to swear! After 
deep meditation, I gathered together the finest swear 
words extant. Over and over again I repeated those 
vile phrases until they feir glibly, naturally, from my 
tongue— full-blooded adjectives that resolved into mon- 
strous illegitimate pronouns that I may not print here ! 
I longed to publish those words, so to speak, to in- 
flict them, sear them on the soul of one of those can- 
tankerous old seadogs, for they played many scurvy 
tricks upon me, such tricks as must remain unrecorded. 
Though many opportunities presented themselves before 
I got the swear-phrases off by heart, I had to wait quite 
four days before I could get my own back in a legiti- 
mate way. At last the desired moment came. It was 
just at sunset. I was standing on deck gazing on the 
horizon, admiring the expanse of peace, the ineffable 
beauty of awakening stars and approaching night. Sud- 
denly the modern sailor, who hailed from a local pub, 
Houndsditch, London, walked out of the forecastle, 
looked at me as I stared over the bulwark, then yawned, 
and dabbed me negligently — smash! in the mouth with 
a coal-tar brush, and calmly asked me if " Me mother 
knew I was out?" 

I clapped my hand to my tar-smeared face; then I 
let forth my pent-up volley of oaths, which I well punc- 
tuated with a splendid driving blow on that son of 
Houndsditch's nasal organ. The applause and calls of 
encore from the whole crew, who had rushed up to see 
the fight, were tferrific. They cheered and cheered. Then 
I gave them something more to cheer about — I picked 
up the nearest tar-pot — there was a row of them by the 
galley door — and crash! it fitted like a cap over my op- 
ponent's cranium, hiding his brow, eyes, nose, and mouth 
too ! It was splendid. The cheer that followed that un- 
rehearsed act of mine soothed my ruffled nerves consid- 



TROUBADOURING IN TAHITI 57 

erably. I was declared the winner, and, metaphorically 
speaking, was awarded on the spot the Nobel prize for 
swearing! I gained and maintained the highest respect 
from those seasoned sailormen. They nudged me in the 
ribs when ** Houndsditch " passed me on deck, and re- 
viewed my contributions to ocean-poetry in the most 
friendly spirit as I swore and swore. So have I slowly 
and painfully educated myself that I may compete with 
my fellow-man and fight the world with my sleeves up. 
I recall that I was quite comfortable on board after that 
fight. Ah! I often think to myself, that if I were a king 
or a millionaire, how I should purchase thousands of 
tar-pots, and fix them — crash! — over the heads of some 
people I know. But why digress to record one's per- 
sonal viciousness? Except for the incidents recorded 
it was a monotonous voyage; and I was delighted when 
we caught a good trade wind and, with all sails set, the 
" Zangwahee " fairly danced and bowed as she did her 
ten knots toward old Papeete. 

I had been to Papeete before, so knew what I was 
up against. I wasn't touring the world with a camera 
and a thousand a year; and, though " South Sea palm- 
clad isles and wine-dark seas " sounds poetic and com- 
fortable like, you have to rough it a bit if you've only 
got fourpence halfpenny in the exchequer. But these 
facts didn't trouble me overmuch, since I could play the 
fiddle and swear. 

The cook of the " Zangwahee " was a most grotesque 
character. He swore like the much-maligned trooper, 
banged his pots and pans about, and behaved like a luna- 
tic when we stood by the galley-door and held our noses, 
as we cynically praised the terrible effluvia of the cooking 
salt-horse. He, too, belonged to another age. He was 
sun-tanned to a yellowish hue, and had a large, drooping 
nose with bristly hair on the end. He would purse his 



58 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

lips up and, giving me a contemptuous glance as I smelt 
the galley odours, would say: " You call yerself a saylor- 
man! yer God-damned galoot, clear art of it! " But in 
the end he and I became quite chummy. He would sit 
by his galley doorway and tell about the good old days, 
curse the modern sailormen and seafaring ways, as I 
agreed with all he had to say. " You orter been a-living 
in our time, when men was sailors," he'd say, as I softly 
pressed him to take another sip of rum from the flask 
which I always carried, so that I might with ease bribe 
those dogmatic seafarers. After that he would cook a 
small bit of salted horse in fresh water instead of sea- 
water for my especial benefit. He even gave me fresh- 
made biscuits at times. So did I manage to exist on 
the ''Zangwahee"; otherwise I should have been buried 
over the side and gone out of this story years ago. When 
rum was plentiful, the cook would stop on deck dancing 
half the night. Through being bow-legged, he looked 
like some mammoth frog clad in an apron, as he shuffled 
in a jig in the moonlight, close by his galley door. The 
songs he sang were quite tuneless, consequendy he sang 
and sang. He would fold his arms on his breast and 
open his mouth like a puppet, as I played the violin and 
he danced. I've never played an obligate to a frog's 
solo ; but for tune and tempo give me the frog ! ( I don't 
think it's usually known, but the Polynesian swamp frog 
was the original inventor of the syncopated accent of 
the modern cake-walk. ) Its chant goes : 



i 



w 



K 1 fc. ^^'^ 



Clack, click, click. Clack, click, clack. 



And to sit in a South Sea forest by moonlight and hear 
an old marsh-frog conduct an orchestra composed of 
the weird denizens of the forest — the Samoan nightin- 



TROUBADOURING IN TAHITI 59 

gale wrapt in its green and bluish velvet robe, singing 
exquisitely as prhnu donna, the mosquitoes buzzing on 
their weird flutes, while the grey, swallow-tailed gnat, 
sitting on the tall fern-spray, sweeps majestic strains 
from its wondrous violin, as the old forest trees waltz — 
is a musical treat and sight to be ever remembered. 

It is wonderful what we mortals can see and hear 
when we keep our inward ears and eyes wide open. Of 
course, such sights were as nothing to me; I had long 
since realized that the great truths of this world exist 
outside the realms that men persist in erroneously dub- 
bing " Reality." 

It was an engrossing spectacle to watch those old- 
time sailors dance on deck by moonlight. The very 
winds in the sails seemed to sing an eerie accompani- 
ment, as the weird old shellbacks jigged and tossed their 
arms to the moon. I'd play the fiddle, as the strain of 
" Oh, oh for Rio Grande ! " came ghostlike from the 
dancers' bearded lips. It looked as though they were 
the ragged phantom crew of a ghostly ship, as they shuf- 
fled on deck, their sea-boots going " Tip-er-te-tap-tum- 
per-te-thump-thump ! " their eyes bright with merriment, 
as they opened their big, tuneless mouths and joined in 
the chorus. Then a cloud would suddenly pass across 
the moon's face, and lo, puff ! they had all vanished, gone, 
blown overboard ! 

I'd stare aghast, and see lumps of ragged clothes and 
misty stuff, like remnants of old beards, swept off on 
the night winds, as their parchment-like hands clutched 
in vain at the clouds in space! 

Some unimaginative folk might have sworn that it 
was nothing more than hovering albatrosses asleep on 
the wing, floating on the wind. But still, it's a weird 
place is the South Sea. 

However, in the morning, there they were, all in their 



60 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

bunks, fast asleep, or half awake, dipping their swollen 
heads in buckets of cool sea-water — as real as real could 

be! 

With all that voyagers discomforts I found it in no 
way monotonous. For that forecastle was a wonderful 
breathing library of stirring adventure. The characters 
of the books walked about, talked, and took mighty oaths 
if one dared to doubt their veracity. 

I often marvelled how any shipping-office officials came 
to engage such ancient-looking sailormen. They looked 
infirm and useless. I sometimes half fancy that I 
dreamed them, or that I am quite a thousand years old, 
as they come to me in some memory of the night, and 
dance till I distinctly hear their sea-boots tapping on my 
bedroom floor in this old inn. Olaf was clean-shaven, 
and was so wrinkled and tanned that he looked like some 
neptuonic mummy clad in modern duck-pants and a 
belt. Steffan wore a peculiar-shaped bristly beard round 
his neck only, which looked like an old, frayed, grey 
woolly scarf, a fixture round his throat. Hans, the boat- 
swain, who always said " Thou canst," and " thee," and 
" shiver-me-timbers," would look straight into the mate's 
eyes and say, *' Avast there, you lubber ! " He had one 
enormous tooth that protruded from his compressed lips, 
which seemed ever grinning, were he awake or asleep. 
At other times he would remind me of a wonderfully 
carved heathen idol, a kind of South Sea Laocoon that 
I had once seen in a tambu-house in New Guinea. For 
he would stand on deck bathing in a large tub that hardly 
reached to his knees, his muscles and veins swollen, viv- 
idly standing out as though through some mental and 
physical agony, while he stared on the skyline, then once 
again scanned his tanned arms and chest, whereon were 
tattooed the strange names of women he had known! 
Olwyn Saga, who wore a beard that brushed against his 



TROUBADOURING IN TAHITI 61 

hips and where through the winds whistled eerie melo- 
dies when storms blew, had cornflower-blue eyes that had 
ogled the women of Shanghai and Cailao before any 
modern sailor was born. 

Even the skipper would tug his huge beard in a kind 
of meditative way whenever he met Olwyn on deck. 
As for the mate, a Scot, he almost apologized before 
shouting out his orders to those grand old fathers of 
the sea. Even their songs sounded like echoes from an- 
other age, as the old fo'c'sle dog, Moses, sat upright be- 
fore them, tears coursing down his cheeks as the strains 
seemingly awakened memories of other days. And when 
Olwyn jigged in the forecastle by night, the hands would 
sit huddled on their sea-chests, their chins leaning on their 
horny hands as they dreamily watched. And I would 
fiddle a weird obligato, shivery-like, as I stood beneath 
the fo'c'sle's oil-lamp, playing, not to Olwyn's dancing 
figure, but to his shadow that mimicked him as it bobbed 
up and down in the gloom of the bunks and wooden bul- 
wark side, first to port and then to starboard, as, folding 
his arms under his beard, he slewed round and round! 
Only the shuffling sounds of the big sea-boots, " Tump- 
er-te-tump-er-thump-er-te-thump," told of the reality, as 
I, avoiding Olwyn and staring at his silently moving 
shadow in the gloom, was enabled to feed my imagina- 
tion and extemporize an eerie accompaniment to a mel- 
ody that had been sung on the Spanish Main a century 
before. 

It was in the hush of the hot, calm, tropic night, when 
the " Zangwahee '^ wallowed in the swell and plomped 
till the hanging canvas seemed to be drumming to the 
destiny of the marching stars, that I blessed those aged 
sailormen. For, as they yarned and yarned, telling of 
their far-off experiences, my admiration for them became 
unbounded. They were either the most glorious old liars 



62 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

that ever existed, or had lived in Olympian times when 
nothing was impossible and only the marvellous occurred. 
Treasure-troves, typhoons, scented merchandise from the 
Indies, faithless lovers, dusky beauties on mysterious un- 
charted isles, and God knows what else, haunted my 
dreams, as I, at last, fell asleep, with their voices still 
mumbling in my ears. Old Hans, who smoked a filthy 
terra-cotta clay pipe and gassed me into insensibility 
on nights of sad rememberings, took a fancy to me. I 
became quite interested in the lonesome dog-watches. I'd 
sit by his bunk, and he'd point to the faded pictures of 
the foreign women he'd known and shake his head. 
"When did she die, Hans?" I'd say, as I pointed to 
one of the faded outlines of his bunk's photographs. 

" She ? — why, shipmate, she died ages ago ! " Then 
I'd hear all about the reality of that shadowy outline 
on the wooden wall. So did I become familiar with 
the inner dramas of those old sailors' lives. Sometimes 
I'd hear things that made a shiver go down my spine, 
or, rather, down where the remnants of my spinal col- 
umn remained, for the mate had surely broken it in 
three places (I had experienced so much in my travels 
that it did not seem strange that I should go off to sea 
in search of romance and lose my spine). 

" You must be mighty old, Hans, to have experienced 
such things," I ventured to say, as he yarned on one 
night. Then, so that he might see that I wasn't as green 
as he appeared to think I was, I added, " Might you 
have met Abraham or any of the Pharaohs in your 
time?" 

For a moment he puffed his antique pipe, his fingers 
toiling away as he stitched the fragments of his ancient 
clothing together; for quite a while longer his chin 
pressed his white beard against his chest, as he sat in 
an attitude of deep thought. Then I distinctly observed 



TROUBADOURING IN TAHITI 63 

an amused twinkle shoot into his pale blue eyes, as, sol- 
emnly shaking his head, he replied, " No, I've never 
'card of them coves; they muster 'ave been born after 
my time ! " 

" Do you mean to tell me that you're older than Abra- 
ham ? '' I said quietly. 

Hans looked steadily at me, then gave me a solemn 
nudge in the ribs. And then I knew that old Hans 
had been a bit of a humorist in his youth, ages ago! 
I didn't cotton to Steffan as keenly as I did to Hans. 
The fact is, he would get drunk and shout all through 
the night, mind you: 

Blow ! blow ! bully boys, blow— O !' 
WeVe bound, bound for Callao — O ! 
We, the sailormen of long ago — O ! 
So let the winds roar what they know — O ! 
Blow! blow! bully boys, blow — O! 

Then he'd finish up by expectorating a stream of tobacco 
juice right through the port-hole on the figure-head's di- 
shevelled hair! (It is only the callow youth who sees 
the poetry and romance of carven wood.) But even 
SteflFan became emotional when he opened his sea-chest 
and took forth his old tattered love-letters. It seemed 
unbelievable as I listened to the soft, sweet things roman- 
tic girls of eastern lands had written in praise of Steffan's 
eyes, tender ways, and figure ! Then he would fold each 
tattered yellow fragment up, and moan with the winds 
outside in the foremast rigging, as tears coursed down 
his wrinkled cheeks! I think it was when the skipper 
mustered the crew for prayers, aft in the cuddy, that 
those old sailormen appeared the most emotional. It 
was quite evident by their voices that they believed in 
a Supreme Being's watchful care over the lot of old 
sailormen. I would play the fiddle as they stood by the 



64 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

cuddy's table, prayer-book in hand, lifting their sea- 
weary eyes mournfully, as their voices rose and fell. 
What voices ! Mellow and sombre with years, the deep 
bass notes seemed to come from beneath the deck under 
their feet and echo through their beards. The skipper, 
divested of all his erstwhile blasphemy, would hit the 
cuddy's table with his knuckles as he tried to keep the 
tempo and the language the same (they sang in various 
tongues). And one night, when they all stood singing 
with their huddled backs bent, and the cuddy's dim lamp 
swung to and fro sending glimmerings over their wrin- 
kled faces, I seemed to have suddenly passed into a by- 
gone age. " Houndsditch " and the two other modern 
sailors were mysteriously blown, like cobweb figures, out 
of the saloon by a puff of wind. Only those eight hairy- 
chested, tattoed figures stood there, looking like misty 
things with hollow eyes and eerie grey beards, as they 
sang a hymn that strangely echoed up in the wailing sails. 
The tap, tap of the skipper's knuckles on the cuddy table 
sounded afar off. I heard only the long, low plunge of 
the " Zangwahee's " bows as she roamed onward and the 
praying hands of the figure-head swerved, dived, or 
softly lifted towards the tropic skies, while I stared across 
the little swaying table, fidding to the voices of those 
old sailors, as we sailed the dim, starlit seas of romance! 
One night, while we were playing cards in the dog- 
watch, something struck the " Zangwahee " like a tre- 
mendous hammer-blow. We were carrying a lot of can- 
vas at the time. The " Zangwahee " heeled over and 
tumbled us in a heap on the port side of the forecastle. 
The boatswain's dog, old Moses, a huge, fluffy fellow 
with fine brown eyes that were full of wisdom, rushed 
out on deck and barked at the stars. Moses was always 
alert, being the first to obe^ the mate's orders. In a 
moment we had followed Moses on deck in a regular 



TROUBADOURING IN TAHITI 65 

stampede. The mate was yelling and swearing like a 
madman. 

"Where the blazing h are ye, mon? Take in 

sail; she'll have the masts ripped out of her!" (The 
mate seldom gave direct orders to those old sailormen 
who had run the Easter down and doubled Cape Horn 
before he was at his mother's breast!) 

That typhoon had struck us without the slightest warn- 
ing. The " Zangwahee *' was already diving, as I clam- 
bered aloft with the rest of the crew. The seas, calm 
as a sheet of glass when the sun went down, were heav- 
ing angrily as the wind howled across the night. It 
was a marvellous and grand sight, for there wasn't a 
cloud in the sky. The stars were flickering as though 
the typhoon's wild breath reached to the remote outer 
spaces of infinity. As I crawled along the foot-ropes 
aloft, I looked down on the " Zangwahee's " swaying 
decks and distinctly saw old Moses barking as he stared 
aloft, his hairy nose sniffing the stars. I looked seaward 
and saw the ramping seas rolling away to the dim night 
skylines like traveUing mountains. As we fisted the can- 
vas, the old skipper roared his orders from the poop; 
his beard blew upward and went over his shoulders as 
the wind struck him. Of course, up there aloft we got 
the full force of the blast. I clung on like grim death. 
We had to keep our faces to leeward, otherwise it were 
impossible to breathe at all, as the wind struck us like 
a solid mass. I cursed that typhoon. I hadn't any diplo- 
mas for ability in going aloft on dark nights while ty- 
phoons blew. Besides, I had a swollen face through 
toothache. I felt as though I was being tossed about 
in space, lost in an infinity of wind and darkness, with 
only the stars around me. 

** 'Old 'ard ! yer son of a gun ! " roared an old salt, 
as I clutched the canvas with one hand and grabbed 



Q6 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

his beard with the other when the " Zangwahee " nearly 
turned turtle. It was Olwyn Saga, and for a moment 
I had thought that a kind, vast white beard had been 
thrust out of space, until I heard the mouth give a muf- 
fled oath. Only one who has been aloft on a sailing 
ship in really bad weather knows the sensation one feels 
when one hangs on to the taut ropes of a stick that 
seems to wobble in space, a stick with a dozen singing 
sailors clinging to it, using frightful oaths as they ap- 
parently grab the stars and curse, when they should be 
thinking of the supreme possibility of suddenly appear- 
ing before their Maker. 

" Avast there ! Shiver-me-timbers ! What yer doing, 

yer young B ! " seemed to groan a sepulchral bearded 

voice from out the stars! 

" Nothing," I wailed, as the vessel, pooping a tremen- 
dous sea, seemed to dive over the rim of the world into 
an abyss. I had instinctively clutched the nearest solid 
portion of the visible universe — the seat of the aged 
boatswain's pants! And still those old salts sang some 
strange chanty as we see-sawed to and fro in space. 
The moon had just risen, blood-red on the horizon, send- 
ing a wild glow over the storm-tossed waters. And, 
as I looked down from my perch in space, I saw the 
tremendous seas lifting their oily backs, like mammoth 
monsters, as they chased and charged the staggering 
ship. The skipper was still on the poop, using his hands 
as a siren, as he yelled to the winds apparently. Sud- 
denly a tremendous smudge seemed to obliterate the 
world, a smudge that incarnadined the ocean. The 
" Zangwahee '' rose like a leaping stag, then fell. Even 
the seasoned salts clinging beside me ceased their eternal 
chanty at that awful moment. Crash ! the " Zangwahee '* 
had apparently collided with the blood-red moon! I 
distinctly saw the outstretched praying hands of the 



TROUBADOURING IN TAHITI 67 

emblematical figure-head as the jibboom dived and then 
stabbed the moon, and I went head-over-heels and fell 
softly into the moon's ghostly fires! So did it all seem 
to me, as the " Zangwahee " nearly foundered, and I, 
in some inexplicable double-somersault, had a swift 
glimpse of the horizon, as she fell between the mountain- 
ous seas and I was jerked into old Olwyn's arms. I saw 
the great living walls of foam-lashed waters flying past 
us. For one moment the foretop-gallant yard seemed 
exactly level with the foaming pinnacles of the moun- 
tains of water that were travelling S.W. But for Ol- 
wyn's providential grip on me, I should surely have fallen 
from aloft, that I know. I thanked Heaven when every- 
thing was snug aloft and we all carefully descended the 
rattlings. I recall that I had barely got my bare feet 
on the bulwark side, prior to jumping down on deck, when 
another sea struck us. Again it seemed that we had 
foundered and that the waters were thundering over 
our heads, ramping along, shrieking with delight as we 
awaited the trump of doom. When the " Zangwahee " 
once more righted herself, we picked the skipper up as 
he lay by the galley amidships. He had been washed 
off the poop. By some miracle the man at the wheel 
had been able to stick to his post, and so had managed 
to keep the " Zangwahee " from falling broadside on 
into the tremendous seas. The chief mate helped to 
carry the skipper aft and lay him in his bunk. His 
leg had been broken. Suddenly old Hans wailed out 
in a horror-stricken voice, " By the soul of Neptune, if 
my old Moses ain't gone overboard ! " 

The huddled crew stood by the cuddy's alley-way, 
white-faced as they stared over the wild waters. The 
swollen moon's wild red light, sweeping the mountain- 
ous seas, made a glow that somehow harmonized with 
the intense inner drama, the sorrow of that moment. 



68 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

The faithful eyes of that comrade, who had stood sen- 
tinel by their bunks, were out there, staring blindly in 
the engulfing cataclysms of those terrible night waters. 

" Shiver-me-timbers ! " breathed forth those ancient 
men, as it came again— a faint, deep, baying sound out 
of the night, "Wough! Wough!" 

That familiar sound touched the very heart-strings 
of those ancient sailormen. *' God 'elp us all, me ship- 
mate's overboard ! " said Hans to the chief mate. The 
"Zangwahee" rose on a mountainous sea; then once 
more we shipped heavy water. The torn sails of the 
mizzen-yard flapped, booming like big drums, as those 
old seadogs stood there looking into each other's eyes. 
As for old Hans, he had never looked so appealingly 
or spoken in so abject a way to a modern officer before. 

For a moment the clear eyes of " Scotty," for so they 
called the mate, stared on Hans. He was hesitating. In 
that supreme moment he was the true monarch of that 
buffeting little empire of wooden planks on an infinity 
of water. His humble subjects awaited the order that 
would prove if his heart glittered with the true stuff 
that would stamp him as a man in their eyes. 

Though the first force of the typhoon had blown it- 
self out, the *' Zangwahee '* was pitching terrifically, and 
to lower a boat on such a night was a risky thing. 

" 'E*s been a good shipmate to us, sor," said another, 
as Hans watched the mate's face and clutched his vast 
beard that had blown backward right over his shoulder. 

*' I dinna ken what to do, mon; the skapper wouldnae 
think on't, I know," said the mate, as he lifted his oil- 
skin cap and scratched his red head. Then he looked 
into Hans's eyes and said quietly, " All right, mon, lower 
No. 3 starboard boat." 

Possibly the mate remembered that old Moses had 
always obeyed him and pulled the blanket off his bunk 



TROUBADOURING IN TAHITI 69 

true to time when the midnight hot coffee was ready. 
Even at that supreme moment a faint, deep, anguished 
baying called to him out of the night. It was as though 
Moses' wondrous instinct knew that he was something 
of an outsider in a world of two-legged men, and so 
might be left to his fate. In a moment the old hands 
had scampered to No. 3 boat. Their hearts were out 
on those dark thrashing waters. They cared not one 
iota about the risk they took that night. The great lone- 
liness of the ocean -and the wild poetry of the storm 
only strengthened the link of fellowship between them 
and the brown eyes that stared from those seas at the 
flying, storm-tossed " Zangwahee." I had more than 
once seen men lower a boat to save a man overboard, 
and I swear that there was no less determination and 
eagerness displayed by those old salts when they strug- 
gled with the tackle and risked the tremendous seas in 
lowering that boat. 

'' Give a hand there, youngster ! " yelled Olwyn, as I 
clung to the davits and did my best to help them. Then, 
just before they lowered away, I jumped into the boat 
to give Hans his clasp-knife to cut some tangled tackle. 
It was at that moment that one of the men, who was 
watching for the critical moment to lower away, saw his 
chance, and loosened the tackle, and I found myself 
numbered with the old salts in that boat. For a mo- 
ment I thought we had been swamped, for, as the boat 
touched the back of the great oily sea that lifted the 
" Zangwahee " till she heeled over as though she would 
turn turtle, another sea struck her. But those old sea- 
poets were not amateurs: they knew how to make the 
seas scan and the rolling waters rhyme to their require- 
ments. But still for a long time we all had to use our 
whole strength to keep the boat's head to the seas. It 
was then that I discovered, for the first time, that, though 



70 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

the moon was well up on the horizon, a terrible dark- 
ness existed in the gulfs of the waves. Once, when our 
tiny craft rode buoyandy on the top of a tremendous 
sea, I got a swift kaleidoscopic glimpse of the " Zang- 
wahee's " swaying masts and rigging, far-off, with the 
blood-red moon just behind her. The sight of those il- 
limitable miles of tossing waters, our lonely ship and 
lonelier castaway boat, the frantic, hoarse calls of the 
boat's crew, calling *' Moses ! Moses ! " was something un- 
forgettable, to be remembered when old ambitions and 
natural catastrophes are long forgotten. 

No reply came to that frantic call. Not a soul spoke 
as we all listened, down there in the silence of the hol- 
lows, while the wind shrieked overhead and we dropped 
into the sheer silence, as vast walls of living waters 
rose around us. So strangely silent was it down there 
in that gulf of the ocean, that I distinctly heard the deep 
breathing of the sailors as they strained at the oars. At 
last we heard it come again, that faint deep baying of 
our struggling canine shipmate. There was no fancy 
about it; we heard the wild note of appeal and despair 
in each faint, deep bark that answered us between the 
intervals of silence and the crash of the seas. 

" Damn the moon ! *' groaned the boatswain, as he 
stood by the tiller, stared around him, and almost wept. 
We all knew that, had the moon been high in the sky, 
we should have had a thousand better chances of rescu- 
ing Moses. 

" Yell, boys ! Bully boys, yell ! " roared Hans. And 
by faith they did yell. Again they listened and stared 
out over the wild waters. Back it came — a faint re- 
sponse, very faint. It was evident that, through the 
heavy seas repeatedly washing over our shipmate's head, 
he was fast becoming weak, and so less able to resist 
the onrush of the travelling seas that would bear him 



TROUBADOURING IN TAHITI 71 

from us for ever. "Shout again, boys!" said Hans. 
And again we shouted. We well knew that it was the 
only chance. For Moses would instinctively hear from 
which direction our voices came and swim towards us. 
It was then, whilst we all strained at the oars, and listened, 
that we heard a faint, far-off cry of anguish. It sounded 
more like the terrified cry of a human being than any- 
thing else I could think of. Every face blanched, I 
know, as we heard that last faint, terrified scream ! Old 
Hans, who stood by the tiller, his eyes looking quite 
glassy, nearly fell over the side in his eagerness to see 
what had happened. Indeed, the boat was nearly 
swamped, for we left off rowing when we realized that 
something else had come out of the vast night in answer 
to poor old Moses', our shipmate's, despairing appeal to 
us. We knew that the Pacific was infested by grey- 
nosed sharks. We had caught three monsters on a hook 
with fat pork only a day or two before. I know that we 
all shivered' at that moment. We well knew that Moses 
would give a scream like that only if one thing happened. 

Next night, as the " Zangwahee " once again stole 
steadily on her course, I sat in the fo'c'sle with those 
strange old sailormen. There they sat, huddled on their 
sea-chests, smoking their pipes and chewing melancholy- 
wise, shufifling the cards as though they played a game 
that was part of their destiny. Even their silhouettes, 
moving on the wooden walls as the swinging oil-lamp 
sent its mingy gleams on the low table, looked strangely 
mournful as the big-bearded mouths drew in tobacco 
smoke and blew it forth again in clouds. The boatswain, 
old Hans, had torn his Bible in half and used shocking 
atheistical expressions. I heard the tramp, tramp of the 
look-out man just overhead, and the wail of the rigging 
and heavy foremast canvas as the " Zangwahee " crept 



72 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

along to the pushing hands of the night winds. Then 
old Hans lifted his bowed head and looked towards the 
fo'c'sle doorway, where old Moses, night after night, 
had sat on his mat, on watch, his hairy nose pointing 
to the stars as we slept in our bunks. I heard the old 
sailor give a muffled oath as he blew his nose in his dirty 
bit of sailcloth handkerchief. 

Then the cook closed the galley door for the night 
and, stepping softly into the fo'c'sle, plumped down a 
large jar of the best Jamaica rum on Hans* sea-chest. 
It was a present from the bed-ridden skipper; and, as 
the old salts slowly opened their mouths and in one mel- 
ancholy gulp gave a sad toast to the memory of Moses' 
soul, I once more seemed to be voyaging across the seas 
of some far-off age. I heard the melodies of the winds 
wailing aloft in the grey sails that swayed along under 
the stars. And, somehow, I felt the touch of the sea's 
old sorrow and romance blow across the deck. The 
moonlight was falling in an eerie way through the spread 
canvas and wavering ghostly-wise on the deck just by 
the fo'c'sle doorway. Again I felt that visionary pres- 
ence, as it rustled like a richly melancholy-scented wind 
along the deck, a something that my senses could not 
place. I felt it creep into the fo'c'sle, sending its shift- 
ing fingers tenderly over the bowed heads of those old- 
time sailormen, who mourned the loss of Moses, the 
one who had instinctively loved them all, through know- 
ing the hidden virtue of their hearts. 

• •••••• 

When we arrived off Papeete, we seemed to have 
dropped anchor in some celestial harbour of a world 
beyond the stars. Dotted about along the shore, under 
the waveless coco-palms, were tiny, yellow wickerwork, 
bamboo huts. The sun was setting. It was a sight to 
please the most unpoetical being, as dusky figures, clad 



TROUBADOURING IN TAHITI 73 

in tappa-cloth and sashes of gorgeous hues, flitted under 
the banyan groves. The far-away background of that 
island world looked like some vast canvas daub, some 
tremendous transcendent silence lit up by a liquid set- 
ting sun. The mountain ranges of Orehena, visible for 
miles, resembled some old chaos of unhewn creation 
stuffed, piled up, overgrown with forests, and encircled 
by the distant blue pigment of the ocean skyline. But 
the savage children of Adam and Eve were there right 
enough. Fleets of outrigger canoes were being paddled 
out by the primitive peoples who had sighted the " Zang- 
wahee." Those canoes were the Tahitians' tiny argo- 
sies, and were crammed with sweet-scented merchandise, 
coco-nuts, limes, softly-tinted shells, corals, and luscious 
fruits. Those merchants of the south clambered up the 
vessel's side, rushed about the decks gabbling in a mu- 
sical tongue that was the more fascinating through being 
strange to our ears. Some were in such haste that they 
dived from their canoes into the sea, and, leaping on 
deck, looked like bronzed mermen as they shook them- 
selves. The water glistened from their lime-dyed locks 
and ran down their handsome figures. " Yarana ! *' was 
their oft-reiterated salutation. It was hard to tell which 
were the most attractive, the pretty maids with hibiscus 
blossoms in their curly hair, or the handsome terra-cotta- 
coloured youths. Whilst the hubbub and general pande- 
monium of those pretty merchants were in full swing, 
old Hans, Olwyn, Steffan, Olaf, and the rest of the old 
salts walked solemnly out of the forecastle, hired a 
twelve-seated outrigger from the natives, and were im- 
mediately paddled ashore. 

It was at that moment that I sighted for the first time 
the old Tahitian chief, Pokara. So tall was he that he 
overtopped the gabbling crowd who stood on the " Zang- 
wahee's " deck. He was a handsome, wrinkled old fel- 



74 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

low, and his looks did not belie him, for he was a mighty 
heathen poet and philosopher. Though old, he stood 
there in his resplendent youth of seventy summers, his 
eyes ashine with the light of some witchery and fond 
beliefs shared by no one else. Pokara was one of a type 
who are born old and grow up youthful. The blue days, 
and the death-blood of some thousands of sunsets down 
his seventy years had mellowed his faith in human things, 
sent the dross to the winds, leaving him a simple-minded, 
grand old man. But, withal, directly Pokara sighted my 
face, he made a bee-line for me. His fine bronze figure 
was almost hidden, so heavily laden was he with his 
scented merchandise. 

" You nicer white boy, me know ! — me know ! " said 
he, as he dropped his bundles, crash ! at my feet. Then 
he continued, " Wise old Pokara say to 'imself, as soon 
as he jumper on ship, ah, there stand ^ansome nicer 
Englis' boy; he gotter nicer face and alle-same-ee know 
that kind old Pokara am here to sell tings bemarkable 
cheap." 

After finishing that flattering oration, the old Tahitian 
drew back a few steps so that he might the better renew 
his scrutinizing glance over my youthful physiognomy. 
A second look at my face seemed to make the old chief 
fairly chuckle to himself. I must have appeared a ten- 
derfoot ! He behaved as though he would have me know 
that he had, by a still more careful study of my features, 
discovered hitherto undreamed-of virtues and beauty in 
myself, such virtues that had quite escaped his notice 
during his first hasty glance of admiration! 

Majestically waving away the other scrambling native 
pedlars with his hand, he said, "Ha! Ha! Yorana!" 
So how could I do otherwise than purchase a few things 
that I did not want from that artful old man? I tell 
these things concerning my introduction to Pokara, be- 



TROUBADOURING IN TAHITI 75 

cause he was a typical Tahitian pedlar, a child in his 
duplicity, and a fine sample of his race. But Pokara 
was a child in more ways than one. He was a genuine 
survival of the heathen days, and his mind was a ver- 
itable repository of old legends, star-myths, and the 
storied history of shadowland. He was a mighty actor 
by nature, and, withal, was level-headed and good- 
hearted. Consequently I never regretted meeting him 
that evening on the " Zangwahee '* decks, or at any time 
during my lengthy stay in Papeete. 

I recall that, after I left the " Zangwahee," I secured 
a good position as first violinist in the French Presidency 
orchestra, which I took under my leadership and made 
into a capital string band. Monsieur le President al- 
lowed me a good salary from the of^cial exchequer, and 
this established me firmly on my feet. But, alas for 
the foolishness of unsatisfied youth! I tired of success 
and went a-wandering. But I must admit, and on my 
own behalf, that Pokara was at the bottom of that busi- 
ness, for I suddenly met him again and got under his 
pleasing influence. First, I must say that I was in a 
somewhat melancholy mood that day. The night before, 
and by the merest chance too, I had seen the last of 
the " Zangwahee's " crew. I had just emerged from the 
Presidency midnight ball, my violin in my hand, think- 
ing to go straight home to my lodgings (an old hut at 
the end of the township), for, as I have said, it was close 
on midnight. A glorious full moon was shining over the 
palm-clad mountains as I hurried on; but it so happened 
that, after all, I did not return to my diggings till day- 
break. For, as I stared between the huddled spaces of 
the thick clumps of bamboos, I caught sight of some 
eight ragged-looking human beings attired in ancient 
seamen's clothes and antique cheesecutter caps. They 
turned out to be none other than the " Zangwahee's " 



76 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

crew on their last night ashoreT There they were, old 
Hans with vast beard leading the way, Steffan, Olaf, 
Olwyn, the cook, and the rest walking one behind the 
other in solemn Indian file under the palms, as they made 
for the nearest cafe that sold the cheapest and best rum 
and cognac. And as we all sat together in the shanty 
by the mountains, the hills round Papeete rang with the 
echoes of the wild sea chanties of an age that I had never 
known, while they yarned and sang and drank solemnly 
at my expense. Old Joffre, the night gendarme, and the 
sleepless natives came and stood by the cafe's doorway, 
and stared in wonder as those old salts smacked me on 
the back and yelled many lamentations over their fare- 
wells. For I had told them that I had decided not to 
return to the "Zangwahee" any more. I was truly 
sorry to see the last of them. They had admitted me to 
their distinctive social circle, had initiated me into the 
poetic art of looking backward into a seemingly remote 
past, and, above all, they had flavoured my soul with a 
dash of the romance and true poetry of the sea that still 
wandered on the oceans in the shape of peculiar, old, 
tattooed men, when I was a boy. 

But to resume about Pokara. After leaving those 
old salts, I happened to be strolling beneath the coco- 
palms by Motoa beach, a lonely spot by the lagoons out- 
side Papeete. I was standing by the wooden-columned 
portico of a forest shanty listening to the tuneless chuck- 
ling of the blue-winged parakeets, when I was startled 
by seeing a handsome, silent figure standing beneath a 
palm tree. It was alive, for the full dark eyes blinked 
as they stared towards the mountains. The magnifi- 
cently curved shoulders were squared to their full width, 
a tappa-sash of gorgeous colour swathed the waist and 
was tied bow-wise at the left hip, the tasselled end flung 
gracefully over the right shoulder. The figure exactly 



TROUBADOURING IN TAHITI 77 

resembled a bronze statue. The left knee was bent 
slightly forward, and one hand was on the chin as the 
eyes stared in deep meditation. The pose was perfect. 
Had a handsome Greek statue suddenly stepped down 
from its pedestal and gripped my hand in friendship 
I could not have been more astonished. That figure was 
none other than old Pokara, shorn of his cumbersome 
merchandise and clad in the full festival costume of 
ancestral chiefdom. His eagle-like eyes had seen me com- 
ing down the orange groves! 

The old chief bent forward on one knee, and, seizing 
my hand, pressed it fervently to his lips. I discovered 
that the little wooden building by the palms was the 
residence of a native friend of his, whom he had just 
left after a visit. For a while we walked together, then 
at my suggestion we went away over the slopes and 
retired into a cafe and had a drink. Lord Pokara and 
I became staunch friends. I found that he was looked 
upon by all the natives, and by the white settlers too, 
as a character worth knowing. His majestic bearing 
was not the least of his attractive attributes. Though 
his face was wrinkled into a deep, expressive map by 
Time's toiling hand, his terra-cotta-hued shoulders, well 
greased with coco-nut oil, were as smooth as a youth's. 
His thick head of hair was undoubtedly grey; but Po- 
kara was "up to snuff," and had checkmated Time's 
tell-tale pigment by dying his locks to a golden hue with 
strong coral lime. He had evidently been a gay cav- 
alier in his earlier days, for I observed that when the 
picturesque Tahitian maids passed us on the forest track, 
all chanting their himines (legendary melodies), he re- 
turned their coquettish glances without stint, negligently 
tossing his shoulder-sash. Nor must we blame old Po- 
kara for his love of sensuous beauty, for he was very 
old then and so must be sleeping soundly to-night. 



78 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

" You stopper at Papeete ? '' said he, as we finished 
our drink and came out of the cafe. 

"Yes," I replied; and this answer of mine seemed to 
give him immense satisfaction. 

I saw Pokara almost daily after that, and I vow that 
it was chiefly his wondrous personality and its effect on 
my youthful mind that made me leave the Presidency 
orchestra and take to troubadouring with the old Tahi- 
tian chief. 

"You comer with me and play violin in villages a 
longer v/ay off, and we make lots of money," said he 
one day, after I had been down at his primitive home- 
stead. Then he began to tell me Arabian Nights tales 
concerning the riches of the native villages and the won- 
ders to be seen in the pagan citadels over the moun- 
tains. And so it happened that we went off together. 
It was a glorious day when I found myself tramping 
with my violin strung beside me, crossing the palm-clad 
slopes of Mount Orehena, en route for the pagan vil- 
lages where dwelt great high-caste chiefs and chief esses. 

It seemed like some wild dream of a mediaeval age 
when I first stood in a pagan township playing my violin 
to dark-eyed, dusky houris. They stood with finger to 
their hushed lips as I played by their bamboo huts and 
Pokara sang a weird himine. I might say here that 
Pokara had made me memorize several quaint heathen 
tunes before we started off on that expedition, as well 
as telling me monstrous tales about princes and chiefs 
who would cast pearls at my feet as prolifically as one 
throws rice on a happy marriage morn. But, alas! it 
was not all as rosy as my Tahitian comrade had painted 
it. And I thanked Heaven that the expenses attached 
to the role of troubadouring were not over-abundant in 
those glorious climes. Beyond languishing glances from 
the star-eyed, golden-skinned Tahitian belles, I did not 



TROUBADOURING IN TAHITI 79 

get much out of the adventure; but I must admit that 
the sight of Pokara, with his tasselled sash flung grace- 
fully over his tawny shoulder and a fascinating poetic 
grin on his wrinkled mouth, was something worth sweat- 
ing across those tropic miles for in far-off Tahiti. I know 
that Pokara seemed to look upon that trip as the time 
of his life, as he passed round amongst our dusky au- 
diences with his coco-nut-shell collecting-box. Often the 
old chiefs would persuade us to stay the night in the 
village, so that we might serenade them at their sacred 
festival rites and wedding ceremonies. And for such 
services we would receive the highest honours and val- 
uable curios — tappa-cloth, pearl shells, and many things 
that would make a heavy load. Pokara managed to get 
hold of two large sacks, and, filling them with our pres- 
ents, had the cheek to ask me to carry one. But this 
I positively refused to do, whereupon Pokara hid his 
booty in the jungle till such time as he could come back 
and fetch it. 

I think we had been on this South Sea buskin march 
for about three weeks when we arrived at a pagan cita- 
del where we had quite an exciting adventure, — though, 
in good truth, we had many adventures that may not be 
recorded here. One night, after we had been tramping 
miles through breadfruit forests and by the rugged feet 
of lines of mountains, we came to a pagan citadel called 
Ta-e-mao. I shall never forget the surprise of the dusky 
inhabitants as we emerged from beneath the palms and 
I began to play an old Tahitian madrigal, while Pokara 
wailed out words that I did not understand. I was at- 
tired in duck pants and a brass-bound midshipman's reefer 
jacket, and had on my head a large, dilapidated helmet 
hat As for Pokara, though he was travel-stained and 
perspiration had washed much of the gold pigment from 
his ambrosial locks, he was a sight fitted to awaken ad- 



80 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

miration in all hearts. After the inhabitants had rushed 
from their huts and got over the first surprise of our 
sudden appearance, they were overcome with joy as I 
played on and Pokara sang. 

I don't exactly know what happened that night in 
Ta-e-mao, though I do know that the high chiefs and 
chiefesses treated us both with that punctilious etiquette 
always accorded troubadours in those South Sea 
mediaeval ages. It appeared that we had arrived on the 
occasion of a great festival that was being given in 
honour of the visit of an aged king from one of the 
islands to the south. He was a remarkable-looking 
old fellow. He had a face like a gnarled tree-trunk 
carved to resemble a man. His teeth were white as 
snow. He wore side-whiskers and had a large seashell 
tied on to them. He was so stout that, when he went 
to drink out of the festival calabash, the royal attendants 
laid the receptacle down on the top of his corporation, 
then bowed and withdrew. He had brought with him 
his two daughters, or granddaughters, I forget which. 
They were comely-looking girls. One was even beautiful, 
according to our European ideas of that oft-misused 
word. Her thick, curly hair was artistically adorned 
with orange blossoms, and her attire consisted of a 
most attractively woven raiment of tappa-cloth that 
fell to her knees. She had fine dark eyes, luminous with 
a golden light, and they might well have fired the 
imagination of a less bold and outrageous youth than 
myself. Though I was not aware of it, Pokara well 
knew that she was taboo-bride, which means that she 
had just arrived of age, and, being a princess of a certain 
grand old dynasty, was entitled to propose to, and 
accept, the first high chief of royal blood, or whoever 
might please her eyes. In short, my confession is 
this: I made gallant advances to her, and she received 



TROUBADOURING IN TAHITI 81 

them with an abandonment that was boundlessly re- 
freshing and romantic, not only to myself but to the 
royal assemblage of high chiefs and the old king also. 
One thing will I say in palliation of all that I may have 
done, and that is, that I had not the slightest idea 
that the delicious cooling drink proffered to Pokara 
and myself with immense liberality was an intoxicating 
beverage. And I am sure that that drink had a good 
deal to do with the heathenish doings of Pokara and 
myself and the final episode that night in Ta-e-mao. 
Her name was Soovalao, and it is a positive fact that 
Soovalao stood before me, lifted one dusky arm, and 
sang a heathen bridal himine to my eyes ! The applause 
at this choice of hers was terrific! It is even possible 
that I, in some subconscious way, responded to the 
princess's love-tokens and modest caresses. For I 
distmctly recall that I heard the tribal drums crash 
forth a mighty fortissimo con passione as I gallantly 
accepted the beautifully-carved tortoise-shell comb 
from her hair, kissed her hand, and repeated some old 
Tahitian rite! But alas! in delicate compassion for 
those who would resent this sad confession, I will draw 
a veil of forgetfulness over the final heathen dance, when 
I played the fiddle and Pokara sang, and it seemed 
that a thousand dusky beauties of a phantom forest 
seraglio somersaulted beneath the moonlit palms! 

At daybreak I awoke. Pokar^ was stirring beside 
me. 

" Hush, O Papalagi, 'tis well that we fly at once." 
" Fly where? " I said, as I rubbed my eyes and stared. 
Then the old chief looked at me, and said : 
" O Papalagi, you did accept the princess's comb, great 
gift from her hair, and the whole tribe have accepted 
you as great chief ! " 
"Have they?'' said I. 



82 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

Then, as the dawn's first bird commenced to sing in 
the banyans and the village still slept on, Pokara and I 
crept forth from our little pagan hut, and dived noise- 
lessly into the forest! 

"What happened? What did you do, O Pokara?" 
said I, as we camped by a lagoon that day, ten miles 
from that pagan citadel. 

"You no wanter marry princess this day, and go 
way to 'nother island to the south of the setting sun, 
and Pokara see you no more ? " said Pokara. 

"Um! so that's how the wind blows," I muttered to 
myself. 

It was after the aforesaid experiences that we decided 
to return to Papeete, and at once set out on our long 
return journey. Pokara would swear terrifically, I 
know, in his own tongue, as he dropped his huge sack of 
tribal presents and sat on a decayed tree trunk, irri- 
tated, as I climbed the trees in search of birds* nests. 
Somehow the old schoolboy's instinct of bird-nesting 
would come back to me. It would have made any 
collector's eyes shine to see the mighty nests that 
I found, and the richly-hued splashed cockatoos', 
parakeets', and strange tropic birds' eggs that I dis- 
covered. Most of them were too far advanced in fer- 
tilization to "blow out"; but, still, I secured a few fine 
specimens that had hard shells and would not easily 
break. 

One night, just as we had made up our beds of moss 
and fern grass by a belt of mangroves, and Pokara was 
telling me his old legendary stories, we were both 
startled by seeing a strange apparition step out of the 
forest. It was a fine moonlight night. Pokara leapt 
to his feet as I bravely leapt behind him! At first I 
thought it was a heathen god. But I discovered that 
the peculiar being was real enough, for It wore ragged 



TROUBADOURING IN TAHITI 83 

side-whiskers, large loose pantaloons held up by a belt, 
and a tremendous wide-brimmed hat that had nothing 
spiritual-looking about it. It was a derelict sailor. 

"What oh, shipmate!" 

" What oh ! " I responded, as the stranger gave a loud 
guffaw and roared out : 

" Damn me blasted whiskers, where ther 'ell you 
sprung from ? — a wirelin too ! '* he added, as he stared 
down at my fiddle. 

On hearing all that we chose to tell him, he winked, 
and told us that he had knocked the skipper of his ship 
down, and had made a bolt from Papeete to save being 
placed in irons. 

He did keep us alive that night, I must admit. He 
had a large flask of whisky in his pantaloons and plied 
himself from it liberally. And the way he sat by us 
that night and sang awful songs was something extra- 
ordinary and thrilling. He seemed to be unable to sleep, 
and every time I dozed off he caught me a whack on the 
back and said: 

" Wake up, yer young b ! '* 

At daybreak he informed us that he must make 
tracks, as he wanted to slip down to the coast and stow 
away on one of the trading schooners that traded 
between the Marquesas group and Tahiti. I think 
that we were about three days' slow journey from 
Papeete when he left us. The last I saw of him was 
when his big boots crashed though the forest scrub, 
making the parrots rise and scream above the giant 
breadfruit trees, as his herculean figure faded away into 
the shadows of the wooded depths. Pokara seemed 
mighty glad to see him go! I was sorry. I recall 
that we camped by a large lagoon near the shore that 
night. It was a glorious starlit sky, and Pokara, who 
never wearied of telling me his wondrous stories and 



84 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

old legends as we camped by those high sea ways, sat 
there by the mountains and told me a very fascinating 
legend. I saw his eyes brighten as the tale he told re- 
vived the legendary atmosphere of his youth. 

"You see stars— tips of light up there in sky?** said 
he, as I lit my pipe and prepared to listen. 

''Yes," said I, as I looked up at the heavens and 
saw, millions of miles beyond his dark, pointing finger, 
a small constellation of stars, six in all— two very bright 
ones, and the remainder stars of about the fourth mag- 
nitude. 

" You liker know, O Papalagi, who those stars are, 
why they get in sky and stop up there ? " 
" Indeed I would ! " I responded. 
Then the old pagan astronomer sighed deeply, and 
proceeded : 

" Tousands and tousands of moons ago, big canoe 
come from Isles that am in the setting sun. As big 
canoe get near Papeete, the win* blew and blew. Then 
the moani (sea) jump and jump and push canoe on the 
teefs; bottom of canoe fall out and sailors all go bottom 
of sea! One great chief did try to keep life that be- 
longer him, and so he not sink for a longer time; but 
then he too go bottom. But, though he go to bottom 
of ocean, he no die dead. It was then that he look 
round bottom of sea and feel much worried; big place, 
all *lone. Then he call out : * Me great chief Ora Tua 
am here at bottom of sea — where am gods? ' 

" It so did happen that goddess Tarioa, who sat at 
her cave door weaving the sunsets, seaweed, and the 
hairs of dead women to make mats for gods* feet, look 
suddenly round cave door's corner and see great chief 
Ora Tua lying on floor of ocean. Her eyes did shine, 
for he, too, look 'andsome chief as he stood up all 
tangled in the sunset. For you must know that the 



TROUBADOURING IN TAHITI 85 

sun was sinking just same time as canoe bottom was 
knock out on reefs. 

** When goddess Tarioa saw Ora Tua, she put her 
hand to eyes and stare longer while to see so nice chief, 
chief who had belonger world 'way up 'bove sea floor. 
She slowly creep out of cave, and while Ora Tua was 
looker 'nother way, she catch hold of his hair and pull 
'im outer of the sunset. As he stand before her, his 
face and form all shining with golden fire and sunlight 
that once shine over this world, she say, * Ora Tua, 
you are 'andsome chief ! ' 

" Then Ora Tua look at goddess Tarioa, and answer 
nice things 'bout the goddess's face, and he say, * Oh, 
who are you, so beautiful under the sea? ' Then no time 
am waste between them, they faller in love! Big day 
gods and Atua (Thunder-god), the god who open door 
to let out kind sun in morning and tattoo sky by night, 
peep through crack in that big cave and say, 'Oh, dear! 
Dear me ! goddess Tarioa am gone now and kiss that Ora 
Tua, a dead chief who am not tapu, but am mortal who 
once live up in world by the sea.' 

" It was then that big gods all rush out of caves and 
run after goddess Tarioa and Ora Tua, so that they may 
not kiss again. But so big were their shoulders, all 
moving alonger underneath ocean water, that it make 
big waves tumble about up on sea beneath the stars; 
and so 'nother canoe that was filled with nicer Tahi- 
tian maidens knock on reefs and go to bottom of sea 
too! 

" The gods were so pleased that the dead Tahitian 
girls so pretty all stand before them, that they forget 
all about wicked goddess Tarioa and chief Ora Tua." 

"What happened then, Pokara?" said I, as the chief 
licked his lips and looked up towards the starlit skies in 
deep meditation. And he continued in this wise: 



86 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

" Well, longer time after Ora Tua kiss goddess, she 
had two children same time ! '* 

"Twins?" said I, as I laughed, and Pokara voucK- 
safed a solemn smile. 

" The gods of shadowland were terrible angry : they 
stamp feet till world shake. It was terrible thing for 
goddess Tarioa to give forth in birth two mortal chil- 
dren ! 

" Goddess Tarioa know this much, so she cry and 
cry out : * O great gods, giver unto me nice sweet milk 
for my two strikas (children) ! ' for her grief was 
mucher, since goddess do have no bosoms. 

" The gods did all look through the big ocean water 
like great faces looking through white man's image 
glass; they looker terrible angry at Tarioa and say: 
* Your babies wanter milk ? — why am this ? ' 

" And Tarioa did hang her head to her bosomless 
bosom, where the little ones did move their mouths and 
fingers in much sorrow. For a moment the gods did look 
in wonder at the children, then they said : * O Tarioa, 
since thy children are mortal, they must die! ' 

" Then the god who tattoos the skies by night look 
out of the great Ink of Night, and say : ' Is it well, O 
great Atua, to kill these children ? Are they not of those 
who gaze on the great blue ways as my finger, toiling 
brightly, tattoos the stars ? ' 

"And so did it happen that one god did pray for 
Tarioa and her children. So they no kill Tarioa, but 
they run after her and drive her to the far north-west 
of big ocean-floor till she come to the shores ! And then 
she did run up into the world of sunlight, and standing 
on the shore did say : * Oh, how nicer a world ! ' 

"As she look up at nice trees all blowing and singing 
in win' and saw above the trees the kind blue sky, she 
look so beautiful that kamoka-bird (evening-nightingale) 



TROUBADOUMNG IN TAHITI 87 

fly out of big forest by the sea and sit on her head. 
It sang and flutter its wings as its feet get much entangle 
in goddess's hain Then it hopped down on her shoulder, 
and try mucher to poke stalos (fireflies) in babies' 
mouths as they cry and cry for milk. 

" But still they cry and cry. Fireflies no good ! Then 
Tarioa very sad, so she call out. * O god of Rain. Ora, 
Tane, Maker-of -flowers and birds and nicer things, I 
have sin in thy sight, but now I do offer prayer. I will, 
O gods, be as sacrifice to thy altars, and my children shall 
worship thee if they do live.' 

'' The great god Tane, hearing her prayer, did walk 
out of forest. Seeing so beautiful a goddess before his 
eyes, he say : * You wanter food, milk for babies ? ' 
Then he put forth his big hand and held babies up on 
tip of one finger — and looker much pleased! He then 
say : * Your children, O goddess of sin, may grow up 
beautiful through having so nicer a goddess mother; 
they might have light of the great gods, my vassals, in 
their hearts.* 

" Then as the babies cry, god Tane turn in great 
hurry to a palm tree just by. He touch the top, that 
was 'gainst sky, with his finger, and lo! out sprang a 
bunch of ripe coco-nuts! Then he touch shell and so 
make soft holes. And then he place babies' mouths to 
the holes so that they could drink of the nicer sweet milk. 
He then turn to goddess Tarioa, and touch her breast, 
and her bosoms did grow — not two bosoms, but four. 
So did she, being a great goddess and loved by Tane, 
have four nipples. 

" So did goddess Tarioa become mortal. Her children 
grew up and did have more children who do ever have a 
far-away look in their eyes when they stare towards 
the setting sun. For you must know that they are fapu 
children, and live on the Isles that are far to the north- 



88 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

west. And long, long ago, goddess Tarioa did go 'way 
to shadowland that is far up in the sky. And it is up 
in the sky that her eyes did stop and still stop as she ever 
watches by night over her children." 

Saying the foregoing, Pokara pointed up to the con- 
stellation of six stars to the far north-west, and said: 

"Papalagi, there she is! — those two bright stars are 
her eyes and the four pale little stars am her nipples. 

" So you see, O Papalagi, why all the children of the 
islands 'way to north-west are tapu (sacred), for they 
are the children of the children who did once drink 
tapu-milk from the bosom of the stars." 

As Pokara finished, he looked intently up at the 
heavens. And as I too looked up and saw the two bright 
stars, and the accompanying smaller stars twinkling out 
there, far-off in the clear night sky, I understood how 
wonderful the universe must have appeared to the old 
heathens of many ages ago. I could not laugh over 
Pokara's story, as we sat there by the forest lagoons. 
I must confess that I too felt some weird fascination 
for his heathen world. And, as the old chief laid his 
weary head down on the forest floor and the winds sang 
mournfully in the mangroves, I looked up towards the 
sky and strangely fancied that I saw the beautiful god- 
dess Tarioa watching from the night-heavens amongst 
the stars, watching over her lost children. Then I laid 
my head down on my pillow of gathered moss and tried 
to sleep. As I watched the moon slowly climbing the 
blue vault of space over the forest height, Pokara's deep 
bass snores broke gently through my meditations. After 
a while I gazed on the sleeping chief's face and fancied 
he looked like some tattooed mummy who had lain there 
in its scented swathings beside me for possibly a thou- 
sand years. It was at that precise moment that my eyes 
spied a bright spot that shone like a vast jewel under 



TROUBADOURING IN TAHITI 89 

the distant ivory nut palms. It was a small forest la- 
goon that I had not observed before. I was not as sur- 
prised as one might suppose, when the water stirred and 
a shock-head of glistening hair protruded and two spar- 
kling eyes peered at me. I could hardly believe my own 
eyes as the head rose higher and a beautiful form slowly 
emerged from the silent depths. She was a goddess-like 
creation of wondrous beauty; the glistening waters ran 
from her tresses down below her thighs as she gazed 
upon me. She was not more than twelve yards away. 

" The wonders of the South Seas have no end," 
thought I, as with finger to her lips she beckoned to me 
and came gliding towards me on tiptoe, I instinctively 
understood her meaning. In a moment I obeyed. Jump- 
ing to my feet, I clutched my violin and followed her. I 
heard the eerie rustle of her shadowy raiment, as her 
feet, pattering like rain on palm leaves, sped softly 
beside me. Then we came to the sea. It was a wild, 
solitary spot. Only the tiny whirl of the incoming waves 
broke the moonlit stillness that dwelt at the feet of the 
mountains which rose like mighty sentinels to the north- 
west. Taking me by the hand, she led me out to the edge 
of the promontory. As I stood there staring on the 
strange greenish hue of the sea-line, I realized that I 
was standing on the most solitary point of the earth. 
Then, as gracefully as possible, I did exactly as she 
bade me — sat down in the large bowl of moonlight she 
had mysteriously placed there. And, so seated, I lifted 
my violin to my chin and played a weird melody, such 
a melody as a troubadour might well play to a beauti- 
ful enchantress. It was all real enough, no dream at all. 
I even touched myself. " No mistaking me ! '* I 
mumbled. Then I gazed on the sky, and observed that 
the stars swam like goldfish across the midnight blue. 
I knew that Pokara still lay fast asleep in the forest 



90 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

shadows, little dreaming of the strange visitant who had 
lured me from his side. In some strange way I reahzed 
how envious he would have been, could he have seen 
me sitting there in that bowl of moonlight playing my 
violin. He, I knew, always would think the magic of 
things was wholly on his side and not on mine; and there 
I was, being strangely favoured by the gods of the 
present reality, whereas Pokara had to dive far back into 
a heathen past ere he realized such wonders as I realized 
that very night. And still I played on, as the maid 
danced in a way that surely none had ever seen before. 
It did not seem at all strange when she leaned forward 
and sang into my ears the melodious old English ballad 
"The Mistletoe Bough"; and while I played a tender 
staccato on my violin the waves wailed a wistful obligato 
con anima espressione^ as they rippled on the moonlit 
coral reefs. 

Suddenly the maid, who had been dancing with her 
hands raised, stayed the silent trippings of her feet and 
fell on one knee before me. In my finest Hans Andersen 
style, I took her hand and listened to her pleading. My 
heart beat rapidly, I know, as she said in accents soft 
and low : 

"O pale-faced troubadour from the western seas, 
come ! Follow me ! " 

" Fancy this being the end of my wanderings in the 
southern seas!" I muttered deep within my soul, as 
she knelt there on the promontory's edge and gazed 
into my eyes in a final mute appeal. Then I rose to my 
feet. I well knew that many men had risked their all 
for the sake of the light of witchery in a woman's eyes. 
Perhaps she observed my hesitation, for, as she gazed 
on me, I saw her eyes blink, and, lo ! I got one splendid 
glimpse of the stars that shone in their liquid depths. 
Nor could I help myself, as, standing there, I touched 



TROUBADOURING IN TAHITI 91 

her lips with my own thrice before I took the final 
plunge. I instinctively placed my violin under my coat 
so that it would not get wet. Once more I looked up 
at the sky. Then we both dived noiselessly into the 
ocean and faded away into the depths of a great silence. 
I opened my eyes. Pokara was still beside me, fast 
asleep. Only the passionate song of the Le Mao, 
high up in the breadfruits just overhead, disturbed the 
silence of the forest as I stared up at the stars. Then 
in some vague longing I turned over and tried to sleep, 
so that I might catch up the thread of that dream 
again. 



CHAPTER III. POKARA'S STORY 

Pokara tells me how the first Idol came to be Wor- 
shipped. 

WHEN I opened my eyes, the morning* parrots 
were wheeling away in screaming droves over 
the slopes. Pokara was already awake and busy cook- 
ing yams for our breakfast on a little fire in the open. 

"Good-morning, O mighty Pokara!" 

Pokara, who loved to be addressed thus, saluted me 
in his fascinating theatrical style. 

"Did we travel together under the moani ali (sea) 
last night, and watch a beautiful goddess walk the mid- 
night skies with stars shining in her hair, comrade ? " 
said I, as a bird flew out of the sunrise, pouring forth 
passionate melody in its rapture of the awakening day 
over our w^ide bedroom floor and the sculptural beauty of 
our vast, columned portico — the mountain gaps high over 
the forest slopes. For answer Pokara said : 

" You taster nicer this, O Music Man of long fiddle- 
stick!'^ 

It was good ! Pokara was an estimable cook, as well 
as being a good companion. I was a connoisseur in 
the derelict companion line. I had travelled across the 
bushlands, isles, and seas with melancholy old men who 
mumbled in their beards; jolly old men with big red 
noses; soppy, anaemic-faced youths; lean, cynical men; 
scraggy, long-necked Don-Ouixote-like beings; religious 
maniacs; atheists with sad eyes; glorious old liars 
crammed full of romantic notions; Homeric men who 
would have been knighted by kings and loved by prin- 

92 



POKARA'S STORY 93 

cesses in another age, but alas! hanged in this new age 
where they slept with one eye ever open. I had even 
met derelict white women on my travels — some in rags, 
delicate lyrics of sorrow that only God knew the truth 
about; others, women who wore virgin moustaches and 
swore so vilely that the pretty brown maid from Malaboo 
hung her modest head as she ran off into the forest to 
hide for shame that a woman should swear so! And, 
notwithstanding this motley collection who had accom- 
panied me on my travels, Pokara was no mean second to 
the best of them! 

I recall that we were both tired out when we camped 
by the sea that day before travelling on in the cool of 
evening. For we were within sound of the native 
villages and the outskirts of Papeete. Pokara made 
a hasty meal of cooked fish from the lagoons. As we 
sat there, the ocean resembled some mighty glass mirror, 
so calm was the evening. But at times the water bubbled, 
was slightly fretted into feathery foams, as though 
something moved beneath the surface. 

" You see that on water out there," said Pokara, 
pointing to the movement. 

" Yes, I do," said I, wondering what on earth Pokara 
could make out of such an ordinary movement of the 
ocean. 

"You know, Papalagi, that mighty gods walk *bout 
under sea?" 

" Well, yes, IVe heard so," I said. 

Then he continued : 

" Big god walk under sea. He got big shoulders, 
wide as mountains, and in his large head of wonderful 
hair he stick white feathers. And, as big god Atua Mara 
move along ocean floor, feathers in his hair stick out top 
roof of the sea, for he always walk about when matagi 
'(storm) going to blow." 



94 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

Saying this, Pokara became excited, and, true enough, 
at the spot where he pointed, the water on the glassy 
surface trembled, up poked a feather, as though some 
mighty god really strode beneath the sea. Pokara con- 
tinued : 

''Atua Mara is great shark-god now; but he once 
live on land, like me, like you. He once sit under trees 
and sang music to the great god of Light. He only one 
on world. No other mans, no womans, he quite 'lone, 
all-e-samee, he 'appy god. Sometimes he see other gods 
in sky when no clouds hide them. Once when win' blow, 
he looker up in sky and saw great god Papo walking 
'cross sky, searching *mong his bright moons and stars, 
for he wanter find gods who had disobey him! Sud- 
denly his angry eyes did flash out the lightnings; his 
voice rumbled the great thunders in mountains, for he 
did find Taroa, the god of Jealousy, hiding behind cloud ! 

" Papo, the Master-of -all-gods, hold 'im tight, and 
struggle longer time with Taroa. But all-e-samee it was 
no good. Papo throw big worlds at Taroa and lift up 
ocean in hollow of his hands. 

"Taroa fight all-e-time like brave chief. Then he 
fall dead, and was so big that one of his dark feet did 
stretch right 'cross skies ! Still, god Papo throw worlds 
and oceans at his dead body, and the waters of oceans, 
and the worlds that the victorious god still threw, rolled 
down the flanks of the dead god, and down the skies like 
big rains. So did worlds fall, and isles come on the 
seas, and waters of the seas grow bigger and bigger." 

After this digression into the wonders of shadowland, 
and the reason that so many isles were scattered across 
the seas, and the wherefore of the ocean's deepness, the 
old Tahitian continued : 

" Atua Mara see great fight 'tween gods, and laugh 
much, for he like see god Papo win battles. 



POKARA'S STORY 95 

" One day, as Atua Mara sit under breadfruit trees 
eating sweet potatoes, taro, and more nicer things, he 
feel lonely. He no one speak to. No man, no wahinee 
(woman), no children cry or laugh. So he look at sky, 
and call out to Papo, the Master-of-all-gods, and say: 
* I, Atua Mara, am lonely. Me want 'nother to sit with 
me on this world for all the thousands of moons that I 
sit in nice sunlight.' 

"The Master-of-all-gods hear Atua Mara's call, and 
look out of sky with angry eye, and say: *0 Atua 
Mara, you got all world for yourself, big forest trees, 
oceans that sing you when win's blow, yet you want 
more? ' 

** Atua Mara look up in sky to where voice came from, 
and answered : 

" * Yes, trees sing to mees, but their songs, like mees, 
sound lonely.' 

" * Very well,' answered god Papo, * as you not pleased 
with my gifts, I show Atua Mara how to get someone 
who will sing you all time ! ' 

" Saying this, he told Atua Mara what to do. 

" That same night Atua Mara go creep into forest 
and pull off nice scarlet flower from flamboyant tree. 
Then, doing what great god Papo tell him, he cut his 
side with sharp shell, and take out little bone from his 
body, and wrap the flamboyant flower round it. Then 
he go down shore to get lump of soft red clay. This 
he shape slowly with his fingers. At last the lump of 
clay did begin look like what Atua Mara's heart desired 
and what he dreamed about before he found out that 
he felt lonely." 

Saying this, Pokara looked up at me and said: 

** You must know, Papalagi, that when he was finish 
and all nicer done and smooth " (here Pokara pointed 
to his own frame and ran one finger down his thighs), 



96 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

and, continuing, said in a hushed voice, " Atua Mara 
had made the clay figure of the first womans! " 

"Well, now!" said I; and Pokara, observing my 
interest, breathed deeply and stroked his chin, then pro- 
ceeded in this wise: 

" When Atua Mara had placed the little bone, which 
he had carefully wrap up in the flower, in the side of 
the clay figure, he did take the clay womans and stand 
it on its feet 'gainst a straight coco-palm stem. Doing 
this, he very careful that clay figure's face was turned 
towards big waters of the west, where sun say good-bye 
to mountain-tops, before it go down through door of 
shadowland. That day, next day, and after days, Atua 
Mara did come and kneel before the clay womans which 
he had make. He look upon it and dance softly with 
joy when he notice that, each time he come, the light of 
each sunset had shone plopberly (properly) on clay 
figure. The clay get softer, and, where he had make 
small holes beneath clay womans' brow, the eyelids did 
begin to sprout dark lashes. As hair grew and grew, 
falling down figure's shoulders, he so pleased that he 
run 'bout forest calling out praise to Master-of-all-gods. 
One day he come at sunset and touch the clay figure. 
His work did look so nicer that he touch it with his lips, 
and, Masser, it was quite warm! The lips had turned 
like to red coral and were curved like the leaf of the 
palm. He notice that the figure's clay bosom was smooth, 
and when he did touch it, it heaved soft, like the moving 
of deep, still water when stars are imaged. Once more 
he placed his lips to the figure's mouth. Ah, Masser, that 
was the first kiss god-mans ever gave unto womans. It 
was then Atua Mara gaze deeply at the clay figure's face 
and kiss where he had made holes, which had swollen 
and turned into soft eyelids. He kiss again and yet 
again, and the eyelids quivered, and, lo, burst softly apart 



POKARA'S STORY 97 

till they caught and mirrored the light of the setting sun. 
So pleased was Atua Mara, that he lift his hands to sky 
and no speak — for the eyes commenced to move ! It was 
then that the clay limbs trembled, the mouth open and 
speak, saying : * Oh, Atua Mara, who am I, here in the 
kind sunlight?' 

" It was then, Masser, when first woman spoke, that 
the win's sang a long-away-off song in the breadfruits 
of the sacred groves; the shadows did fall over the 
mountains, the stars turn pale in the lagoons; and before 
the moon crept back into the halls of Poluti, at dawn, 
it look back across mountains with big red face; then, 
with hand over its eyes for shame, crept back home 
through the big door to tell the Master-of-all-gods what 
had happened in the great world outside." 

On saying this, the Tahitian gazed seriously up into 
my face and said : 

" Ah, Masser, you must know that Atua Mara had 
knelt before his figure of clay and worshipped it! Next 
night the great God-of-the-skies did look out from be- 
hind cloud and say aloud, * Atua Mara, where art thous? ' 
The god's voice did echo and rumble across the moun- 
tains of this world, and then did fade into big silence. 
Then the voice did come again with greater anger, and 
Atua Mara see big figure move 'bout on misty moon- 
light of all the sky as someone tramp 'bout shadowland. 

" * Atua Mara, where art thous?' came again like big 
echo. It was then that Atua Mara, who was half-mortal, 
crept out of the thicket of bamboos where he had hid 
at the first sound of the angry voice of the sky. He much 
Afraid, for he know well what he done! His head did 
hang down with much shame, like unto great chief when 
he lose big battle. He answer great god like unto this: 
* I am here ; what you wanter ? Me do nothings, O great 
God-of-the-sky ! ' 



98 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

" Then the great god Papo did answer, * I give you 
all you wanter ; you did ask for nice songs and one mans 
to speak to, and now you have gone and make figure 
different to my wishes, and worshipped it instead of 
worship me ! For this great sin, O Atua Mara, I banish 
you from happiness of sunlight! You shall move 'bout 
under great ocean for ever, and your face be like unto 
the big face of the grey shark.* 

" At hearing what the god did say, poor Atua Mara 
creep back ashamed into forest to see womans he had 
made. As he did creep out of thicket of bamboos, the 
womans did much shriek, for Atua Mara's face was like 
unto the cruel face of a shark. But, because Atua Mara 
had made the womans himself and had kissed her as the 
God-of-the-sky not wish, she was kind and tender; and, 
though Atua Mara look much ugly with 'im face like 
shark, she sorry and love 'im still. So they had many 
children. Then one stormy night, when gods were 
angry, Atua Mara die like all men must die. When he 
was dead, his spirit did rush out of his body and run 
down into the sea so that he could roam the ocean. And 
so did he become the shark-god." 

Saying this, Pokara looked at me and said : 

" And so, Papalagi, that is why some childrens of the 
isles to the north-west have the cruelty of the shark in 
their hearts, for they are the descendants of the clay- 
womans that Atua Mara made. And Atua Mara is now 
one great jealous god. He ever walk 'bout bottom of 
seas trying to catch girls and mans so that he can take 
them to his cave and make them, like him, unhappy." ^ 

1 Some authorities seem to give different versions of the South 
Sea creation legends. One legend says : The islands were origi- 
nally a large shark. Another, that the god Atua Mara had temples 
wherein the priests made sacrifices to his honour; but, being dis- 
satisfied with so much worship, he pulled the temples down, threw 
them all into the sea, and with the rubbish that they made turned 



POKARA'S STORY 99 

As Pokara finished his story the shadows deepened 
over the mountains. We heard the voices of the natives 
who were fishing in the bay at the foot of the moun- 
tains. Then we scattered the red ashes of our camp 
fire, for we still had a mile to journey ere we entered 
Papeete. And as we walked away from that spot we 
looked back over our shoulders, and I distinctly observed 
the feathers of the shark-god's hair poking out of the 
ocean's glassy expanse. Pokara sighed; and as the first 
stars crept out of the deep velvet skies we faded away 
along the shore track, on the last mile of our trouba- 
douring pilgrimage. 

them all into islands. Yet another legend: Thei great god Taroa 
was the first god of the skies : he laboured so much over creation 
that the sweat falling from his body made all the deep seas. 



CHAPTER IV. I MEET ALOA 

The Hut in the Mountains — A Modern Fairy — The Es- 
cape — Love's Hospitality — The Stranger from the In- 
finite Seas ! 

IN this chapter I will tell a true fairy story that is 
directly connected with Pokara's and my own ex- 
periences. Indeed, I imagine it to be one of the most 
realistic fairy-tales that it was my lot to hear and witness 
in its most full-blooded stage; I also deem that it will 
be interesting, in an educational sense, to students of 
modern mythology, since it quaintly distinguishes the 
difference between pre-Christian mythology and the ma- 
terialized Goddesses and Creation myths of to-day, 
through being modified by European influences. 

About a week after my troubadouring expedition with 
Pokara, I sat by the old chief's side wondering what 
new venture his erratic personality would thrust upon 
me. My comrade, clad in his finest attire of dis- 
tinguished chiefdom, had puckered his brows, and his 
eyes had that look about them which plainly told me that 
he was about to spring some new surprise upon me. 
Suddenly he said : 

" Masser, you play nicer moosic, therefore am to be 
trusted; I knower that you feel kinder towards good 
mans who am in trouble and so no tell what you no tell 
and so make troubles ! " 

" Not I, Pokara, old pal," I responded, though I felt 
I was no aposde of such mighty virtues any more than 
was Pokara. Without hesitation the aged Tahitian be- 
gan to insinuate by gentle hints that he wished me to go 

100 



I MEET ALOA 101 

off with him to see a dear friend who lived in the moun- 
tains that formed a grand background to the semi-pagan 
city, Papeete. Before the screaming coveys of para- 
keets, that were bound seaward, had faded on the hori- 
zon, we were off. 

It was a long, hot walk as I tramped by Pokara's side 
and we threaded our way through the deep jungle 
growth. I noticed that the old chief often stopped and 
looked warily over his shoulder, to see if we were ob- 
served as we crept along the winding tracks which ever 
led upward like some " Excelsior " of Nature's ambitious 
loveliness that would climb to scenes of ever-increasing 
beauty. Indeed, as we climbed the scenery became per- 
fect : distant landscapes dotted with waving palms, chest- 
nut, breadfruit, and strange trees painted with rich 
crimson and delicate pigments of Nature's voluptuous 
art, ever coming into fullest view. Far away, visible 
between rugged descents and sombre clefts, stretched the 
sapphire-blue miles of the Pacific Ocean. Seemingly no 
human habitation existed in those rugged leagues of 
mountain solitude. Emerging from the thickets of giant 
bamboo, we came to a space on a plateau, and there, to 
my astonishment, I found myself standing before two 
small, yellow bamboo huts. I stared in amazement, and 
Pokara rubbed his hands in childish delight at seeing the 
wonder my face expressed. I half fancied he had led 
up to one of the enchanted homesteads of the fairies that 
he had sworn had existed in those mountains in his 
youth. Death-like silence prevailed. Even the giant ma- 
hogany trees ceased to sigh to the inblown breath of the 
distant seas, as I gazed on the magical scene before me. 
Pokara had uttered a weird kind of cry: ** Aloa! Aue! " 
The spell was broken, for the first hut's little door was 
suddenly opened, and out sprang the prettiest fairy- 
maid it has ever been my lot to meet. She stared at 



102 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

me in a half frightened way for a moment, then 
said: 

*' Yorana, Monsieur! " 

I hfted my old helmet hat, then in my embarrassment 
dropped my violin-case on her bare toes, and murmured, 
" Yorana, Mademoiselle.'* 

The fright went from the maid's eyes when Pokara 
said: 

"Ah, he all right; he nicer Englese boy, play moosic, 
and kind to Pokara." 

On hearing this, the Spanish-Tahitian girl, for such 
I discovered she was, looked up at me in a most be- 
witching manner, and, smiling, revealed a set of in- 
valuable pearly teeth. Her bright, far-away-looking eyes 
cast a spell over me. In my confusion I dropped my 
own and, finding myself staring at her bare, graceful 
ankles and knees, I blushed, and once more looked 
her straight in the face, as Pokara chuckled like a 
child. 

She was clad in true Tahitian style, but with a subtle 
decorous picturesqueness such as a poet, sensitive to the 
delicate requirements of his art, might have chosen as 
a special attire for her after deep meditation — a medita- 
tion that was essentially needful, as one will soon see. 
Bare to about an inch below the knees and again from 
the exquisitely shaped throat to half an inch below the 
bosom's topmost curve, her figure was revealed with a 
delicacy that enchanted me. She appeared like some half- 
serious, half-wicked goddess who would lure, would 
tempt her lover, and turn to stone at the first hint of 
mortal passion. But she was not a goddess nor a beau- 
tifully chiselled terra-cotta statue. Her eyes blinked to 
the buzz of the forest flies. Like tiny flashes of 
wriggling lightning in two miniature circles of the mid- 
night tropic skies, those orbs twinkled as the honey-bee 



I MEET ALOA 103 

clung to the crown of her forest-Hke hair. And — alas 
for human weakness! — there was that about her which 
told one that, for all her delicate loveliness, she was im- 
bued with the frailty of mortals. 

Just as I was thanking my lucky stars that my eyes 
could dwell on so sweet a sight and yet remain in the 
realms of reahty, the spell was once again broken. For 
the maid called out, " Revy ! Awaie ! Come ! '* and at 
once, as though he had awaited that call, out of the same 
small hut walked a sun-tanned, handsome young French- 
man! And who was he? I will tell you. The young 
Parisian, standing there before me with staring eyes, was 
a convict, a fugitive from /// Nou, the penal settlement 
of Noumea. He was hiding there in the mountains, se- 
cure from the lashes of the remorseless surveillants, hid- 
ing, guarded by the tender protection of that beautiful 
goddess, who was none other than Pokara's grand- 
daughter ! It appeared that Pokara's son, who had been 
dead then for years, had married a handsome Spanish 
woman whom he had saved from a wrecked schooner 
that had gone ashore at Papeete many years ago. 

Aloa was the one child of this marriage, and she was 
the one remaining joy of Pokara's long-vanished con- 
nubial bliss. 

Reveire, for so I will call that young Frenchman, had 
escaped from the convict settlement by stowing away 
on a schooner bound for Papeete. He was evidently un- 
aware of the schooner's destination, for Papeete, being 
under the French, was about the most dangerous place 
he could have come to. Probably this fact made his 
hiding-place the more secure. Pokara had met the 
escaped man whilst out on one of the schooners, and 
had immediately accepted the proffered bribe. And it 
was whilst he was hiding in Pokara's bungalow that his 
granddaughter Aloa fell madly in love with the French- 



104 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

man, and suggested that he should hide with her in the 
mountains. It was a blessed union, Reveire was a fine 
type of fellow. It was some crime of passion that had 
sent him into that dreadful exile. From the young 
Frenchman's lips I heard many tales of horrors that were 
perpetrated by the surveillants on the helpless convicts 
at /// Nou, New Caledonia. Some of those tales seemed 
incredible; but, alas! Reveire's manner expressed truth 
too well. 

Many times did I visit that magical homestead of the 
mountains. And many times, while on tropical nights 
the stars sighed over the mountain trees, Pokara and I 
would listen as the exile told us his sorrows, while pretty 
Aloa murmured, " Aue! Aue!" stroked her lover's face, 
and kissed his hand, tears coming into her eyes to think 
he had suffered so much. As I watched that strange 
scene of secret domestic grief and happiness, Pokara 
touched me gently on the shoulder and whispered: 

" Ah, Masser, we all good peoples here. For I did 
fetch priest, kackerlick (catholic), for my Aloa's sake, 
and he did marry them. He good priest and say noth- 
ings, good man he, because he like God and God like 
him ! " 

So spake Pokara, thus giving me this utmost satis- 
faction of recording the fact that my goddess had en- 
tered the holy bonds of matrimony according to the 
modern mythology of the Christian era. 

" Wail! O wail! O jug! jug! too ee wailo,** came the 
plaintive strain of the South Sea nightingale as it sere- 
naded its mate during the intervals of my violin-playing. 
It was no nightingale to Pokara and pretty Aloa; it was 
simply a tiny, feathered cavalier, robed in a crimson 
[woolly] gown of enchantment, singing to its long-dead 
lover, pouring forth passionate melody over old memories 
of that time ere the gods disguised it as a bird, when 



I MEET ALOA 105 

it was a brave Tahitian chief ! Though I bad had many 
weird, dream-Hke experiences in my travels on sea and 
land, I was greatly impressed by the human note of that 
forest drama. And, as I listened and watched, drink- 
ing in each incident like a child at its first pantomime, 
the fragrant odours of the dying forest flowers and 
mellowing mountain fruits, wafted by the warm zephyrs 
over that secret homestead, made the scene seem strangely 
dream-like. But it was all real enough for, when I 
placed my violin to my chin and played the strains of 
the ** Marseillaise," Reveire's eyes filled with tears over 
some memory of his far-off La belle France that he 
would never see again. But thanks to the inscrutable 
kindness of Providence, a small portion of the wistful 
soul of chivalrous France came to him, and all seemed 
well in the end. For, ere I bade Pokara good-bye, I 
went with him for a last trip up into the mountains to 
visit that fairy-like secret homestead. Reveire had quite 
forgotten his home-sick sorrows. He was laughing like 
a big schoolboy. As for Aloa, she was gazing up into 
his face, delight sparkling in her eyes, as in her arms she 
held up another little Frenchman who was just one week 
old — and who had bravely crossed the Infinite Seas to 
keep Reveire company. 

• •••••• 

After losing sight of Pokara, who went on a prolonged 
visit to some native friends in a neighbouring isle, I 
secured a position as violinist in the Presidency orchestra 
at Papeete. But, alas ! one night when the sea wind was 
moaning in the mountain palms near my wooden home- 
stead, I again heard the call of the wild, and plunged 
into a life of vagabond adventure and madness, as will 
be seen in the next chapter. 



CHAPTER V. FAE FAE 

I meet O'Hara — The Emotional Irish Temperament — 
The Tahitian Temperament — O'Hara and I go Pearl- 
hunting — Tapee, the Old-time Idol-worshipper. 

PONDERING over my experiences of idol-worship 
and my further adventures in Tahiti, the incidents 
connected with the whole matter seem sufficiently inter- 
esting for me to give the story in detail. Not the least 
important part of the matter was the headstrong Irish 
youth, my companion; indeed, I might say that he was 
the prime mover in the whole business. 

First, I must say that I can tell the story only by 
making the facts appear like the buffooneries of a South 
Sea burlesque. Thinking it over, I must admit that my 
own cheek upon this particular occasion was enormous 
and superb! I can recall no other escapade like it, 
except, perhaps, my dangerous adventure with Singa 
Loma, the dancing girl, in the heathen monastery at 
Fiji. Though I can claim the dubious honour of hav- 
ing arrived on the shores of four continents with three 
halfpence in my portmanteau and an all-absorbing belief 
in the generosity of man, of having been a member of 
the crew of an old-time blackbirder, and of having been 
thrown among the wildest characters found outside the 
realms of fiction, I can recall none who managed to 
get my head so near the guillotine as did the way- 
ward Irishman O'Hara. There was a deal of humour 
about O'Hara's personality; it was the humour of ro- 
mantic youth, a pathetic humour that is discernible only 
to the practical onlooker, or at the time when the tale is 

106 



FAE FAE 107 

old. In saying humour, I do not refer to humour as 
defined in the old books of recognized jokes, or the 
works of many modern humorists, works which, to me, 
are the saddest, driest books in existence; but I mean 
the humour suggesting poignant laughter, flickering in 
the light of the eyes and rippling on the lips, coming like 
visible music on the flushed, emotional countenance — the 
poetry of laughter and tears as suggested in a Mal- 
larme poem. 

I had been some three or four weeks in Papeete when 
I first met O'Hara, the curly-headed Irishman. I was 
in the small beach grog-cafe near Potuo, having a glass 
of limejuice at the time. By this, I do not wish to 
infer that I was, or am, a teetotaller: on cold nights 
at sea nothing warms my blood like a nip of rum. 
O'Hara introduced himself by giving me a whack on the 
back, and then joined with immense gusto in the chorus 
of " Killarney," which I happened to be performing 
on my violin. Ah, what a voice he had! mellow and 
sweet, it vibrated like the strings of a 'cello in the hands 
of a Maestro. And, as he lifted his blue eyes and sang 
on, moving his fingers before him as though he played an 
imaginary guitar, the Tahitian belles, peeping through 
the open bar-door, lifted their dusky arms in sheer 
ecstasy as they sighed for " One fond look from those 
wild eyes." One maid placed her hands on her hips 
and, putting forth her pearly toe-nailed feet in exquisite 
style, danced a graceful Tahitian himine. The old 
shellbacks waxed enthusiastic and pulled their whiskers, 
as they made critical comments on the dancer's beauty. 
I might say here that these dances were wonderful for 
their restraint and artistic movement, quite devoid of 
the vulgar limb-movements as exhibited in European 
music-halls. 



108 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

I attribute the almost menacing glance of those Tahi- 
tian orbs on the Celtic temperament for all that occurred 
that night. For my Irish friend overshadowed himself, 
became one inch taller, and broadened considerably in 
the shoulders, on seeing the impression he had created in 
the minds of those dusky maidens. His deplorable wit 
brought forth roars of laughter from the assemblage of 
shellbacks and half-castes who haunted their presence. 
Then he ordered a dozen drinks, pressed four plugs of 
ship's tobacco into my hand, and swore that he would 
die for my sake. I returned the compliment, and told 
him that I did not wish him to die if he would only con- 
sent to sing *' Killarney" once more. It was nearly mid- 
night when the inevitable argument arose and the shell- 
backs and traders took sides. I often wonder how 
O'Hara and I escaped suffocation in the dust of the 
debris as the empty meat-tubs, the wooden bar-screens, 
and a hundred drinking-mugs got inextricably mixed up 
in the farewell melee and wild, insane farewells when 
true comradeship returned, after the fight, and each man 
had a last drink and then went his way. 

Such was my first meeting with O'Hara. But I 
sought his company again. It was at our next meeting 
that he informed me he knew a native who could tell 
us where thousands of pearls were deposited. " Pal, 
our fortunes are made! Savvy?'* I intimated, by a 
conciliatory nod, that I did savvy. I had heard before, 
both in Australia and the Islands, of such vast fortunes 
in the pearl and nugget line; but I had never found 
them! The very next day O'Hara introduced me to a 
weird-looking Tahitian chief, w^ho was supposed to know 
where the pearls were to be found, providing we gave 
him a sufficiently large bribe. This chief (his name was 
Tapee), was a most striking-looking old fellow. He was 



FAE FAE 109 

tall and finely built, and looked about sixty years of age. 
His costume consisted of bits of decorated fibre matting 
swathed about his loins. He wore a large, cleverly- 
twisted palm-leaf hat. His face? — well, it was a face! 
Tve seen thousands of faces in my travels, but never one 
like his. Tapee's face was the essence of faces; it could 
easily have made fifty ordinary ones and still possess 
enough character to make one stare back if it passed by 
in a crowd. The mouth had been finely curved in days 
gone by, but years had withered it, making the lips ap- 
pear sardonic. The eyes, once clear as a tropic sky full 
of stars, had faded into a dim, far-away look, as though 
Tapee saw some wonderful new day beyond the peaks 
of death — and stared into the beyond with fright! He 
was a full-blooded heathen, worshipped idols, and be- 
lieved in dreams and dark omens. 

"Look at him! What a face!" said O'Hara, as he 
nudged Tapee in the ribs, bent forward, and exploded 
with laughter! Tapee took O'Hara's boisterousness in 
good part, even as a compliment, then, swallowing his 
rum, beckoned us both to follow him down to the beach. 
When we stood beneath the breadfruit trees, Tapee peered 
about to convince himself that we were unobserved. 
The shadows of night were falling across the rugged 
mountain slopes behind semi-pagan Papeete city. We 
could hear the tinkling of guitars, mandolines, and 
zithers coming from the Cafe Franqaise that stood by 
the coco-palms near the main street of Papeete. The 
enchantment of fairyland was destroyed by the cries of 
" Vive la France ! Sacre ! " as sunburnt gendarmes 
gazed, as only Frenchmen can gaze, into the lustrous 
eyes of the pretty " Belles Tahitians." 

" You wanter lot moneys, great heap pearls, nice En- 
glesman, eh ? " said Tapee. 



110 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

**' Qui ! oui ! " said O'Hara and I in one breath, as we 
joyously pronounced that French monosyllable. 

** Well, Masser, me knowee where tousands of pearls 
are bidder in lagoon near coast." Saying this, the old 
chief looked up artfully and continued: "But you 
give me moneys firster — if I taker you there to-mol- 
low?*' 

" How do you know that there are pearls in the la- 
goon? '*' said I. 

Old Tapee's under lip trembled like a scolded babe's. 
I had doubted a Tahitian's veracity! 

'' Me ole mans from heaben times, me knowee ebery 
think," 

" Begorra, pal, it's a shame, — don't ! Look at that 
face! Does it look dishonest?" said O'Hara. 

** No," I said, as I gazed reflectively, then handed 
Tapee my last forty francs. This made in all 
eighty francs, for O'Hara had given him a like 
amount. 

That same night O'Hara pensioned off for life almost 
everyone in Old Ireland. He was sure that Tapee told 
the truth about those pearls. 

As the sun was setting, we met Tapee, as arranged. 
** Come on, white mans," said he, as he toddled off. 
Then he intimated that, before he took us round the 
coast to the lagoon where the wondrous pearls were, he 
must first consult someone. O'Hara and I were in a 
fever of excitement as we followed him. It seemed 
incredible that in a few hours we should both be wealthy 
men, and that the elite of the civilized world would fall 
in humble obeisance on their knees before two such 
scallawags as we were! But it was no dream. There 
stood Tapee before us, real enough, wisdom and truth 
inscribed on his tawny wrinkled countenance, as he 
said: 



FAE FAE 111 

"Waiter here, Massers; me back presently, then 
shower you pearls." 

" Yes, we'll wait," we replied, as, with a chuckle in 
his dusky throat, old Tapee toddled away beneath the 
palms. We saw him fade away amid the orange groves. 
O'Hara and I looked at each other. 

"What's he up to?" said I. 

It was a lonely spot. To the right rose the mountains, 
and below us, far away, heaved the ocean, as sleepy 
winds stirred the forest trees overhead. 

" Let's follow him ! " said O'Hara. 

Without discussion or hesitation we crept under the 
coco-palms after Tapee. 

It seemed as though we had, in some mysterious way, 
left the civilized world, and with one footstep walked 
across a thousand years into the dark ages. Tapee stood 
before us, in a space in the forest, waving his thin arms 
and chanting into the lapping wooden ears of a monstrous 
idol! Though the old native was six feet in height, he 
appeared diminutive as he stood in front of that dilapi- 
dated wooden image. Its big, goggling, glass eyes 
seemed to stare right over Tapee's head, gazing mock- 
ingly at us! We instinctively held our breath as we 
stood there exposed to view, for so real did the eyes 
look that we fancied that It had observed us. Then we 
dodged back into the shadows, for Tapee had started 
careering about in the frantic capers of some heathen 
rite. 

"He's a heathen idol-worshipper!" whispered my 
comrade. 

Then we received another surprise, for out of the 
shadows, just by us, in response to Tapee's weird cry 
of "Awaie! Awaie!" sprang what appeared to be a 
Tahitian fairy figure! It was a native girl. She was 
dressed up in some old heathen-time costume. Her mass 



112 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

of hair was of bronze-gold colour, and fell down in 
luxuriant waves which streamed over her neck and 
shoulders in attractive contrast to the bright sun- 
varnished hue of her smooth skin. Her tresses were 
thickly adorned with flowers, and she wore a barbarian 
kind of raiment, the tasseled folds of which reached 
down to her knees. (It was a style similar to that which 
I had seen worn at the tribal festivals in New Guinea 
and the Solomon Isles). In a moment she too was 
careering round the idol in company with old Tapee, as 
she chanted a hiniine. 

" O Loa ! " whispered Tapee, as he turned about and 
stared into the forest shadows, as though he wondered 
if we were near enough to hear the girl's loud singing. 
O'Hara moved forward. 

"Keep out of sight; let us see it all," I whispered, 
in at the same time pulling him back by the coat-tail 
into the shadows. Tapee had commenced to dance again. 
Then the girl fell on her knees before the big image, 
and began to beat her body with her hands in a heathen- 
like manner. 

To my sorrow Tapee suddenly turned round and ob- 
served us peeping from the bamboo thicket. He looked 
frightened out of his life. 

" Oh, Masser, you no tell Flenchmans that me worship 
idols? Me know where pearls are, and 'tis this nicer 
idol who tell Tapee where pearls are found." 

My comrade only stared, hardly knowing what the old 
native was driving at, till he continued : 

" I come here to ask this idol where pearls are, now 
I am awake. You know, Masser, that I only dream of 
pearls first; idol tell all 'bout after — savvy?" 

Thinking of my money, I shouted, and somewhat 
fiercely I think, " Don't you know where the pearls are, 
you old scoundrel ? What about the eighty francs we've 



FAE FAE 113 

given you? " I added, as Tapee hung his head, and then 
said : 

'' Me get Fae Fae, who am witch-girl, to ask idol 
where the pearls are, and if idol no tell her, well, me give 
you back your moneys ! " 

It all ended in Tapee falling on his knees and saying : 
" Oh, Masser, me and Fae Fae be put in calaboose if you 
tell of us. Me great chief and Fae Fae is great princess, 
same blood as Queen Pomare." 

So spake Tapee, as he pointed to the girl, who stood 
trembling and abashed beside him. After that the old 
chief took us into his confidence, and we found, from 
what he told us as we stood there, that he too was re- 
lated to the Queen and that Fae Fae was his niece. It 
appeared that he had managed to get her under his in- 
fluence, and so she often came out of the palace across 
the valley, to join Tapee in his heathen worship. For 
a long time the old man wailed into our ears. Then we 
gathered that Fae Fae was engaged to be married to a 
high chief named Tautoa, and that Tapee was very much 
afraid of this chief. 

All that seemed to concern my Irish comrade was 
Fae Fae and her fright. O'Hara's manner became quite 
tender as he repeatedly assured her that we should never 
say a word to anyone about what we had seen. At this 
Fae Fae gave O'Hara a languishing glance, and seemed 
to look with great favour upon him, notwithstanding that 
she was engaged to be married to the high chief Tautoa 
whom Tapee had just told us about. 

In the end we helped Tapee to drag his huge idol into 
the deeper undergrowth and so hide it securely from 
prying eyes. The old chap was so overcome by our 
friendly manner that he volunteered to refund us part 
of our money. Indeed, I think we got it all back, less 
thirty-five francs, which Tapee had spent in the fan- 



114 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

tan bar-room at the Chinese quarter at Soloam, Pa- 

peete. 

So ended our adventure as far as the pearls were con- 
cerned; but it led to another very exciting one, as will 
be seen in the next chapter. 



CHAPTER VI. ABDUCTION OF A PRINCESS 

O'Hara in Love — Fae Fae's Midnight Elopement — 
Chased — A Melodramatic Race for Life — The Innocence 
of Eve — Temptation — The Lost Bride — The Madness of 
Romance — Outbound for Honolulu. 

I HAD just returned from an engagement where I had 
performed violin solos at the French Presidency con- 
cert, when I met O'Hara again. I was sitting in the 
wooden cafe at Selao at the time. 

"Well, what's the matter now?" I said, as O'Hara 
greeted me. I noticed that he looked rather mournful. 

" Pal, I'm not going to be done; I've made up my 
mind to marry the girl Fae Fae, and be damned to her 
old nigger chief, Tautoa! " 

One can imagine my astonishment as O'Hara blurted 
out the foregoing, for I had no knowledge whatever that 
he had seen Fae Fae since we had first seen the girl 
dancing round an idol in the forest. Slowly the truth 
came out. It appeared that O'Hara had been secretly 
meeting Fae Fae every night since the idol adventure. 
Things had come to such a pass that Fae Fae had agreed 
to bolt from the palace and marry him. 

" What's the trouble, then ? Don't you want to marry 
her?" said I, as O'Hara finished a glowing account of 
Fae Fae's affection for him. 

Then O'Hara made a further confession. It appeared 
that, in his usual careless way, he had been overbold, 
and so had spoiled his chance of wooing Fae Fae on the 
sly. He had gone to the Queen's palace one night, and 
had serenaded Fae Fae on the guitar, like some old- 

115 



116 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

time Spanish cavalier. This mad act had got Fae Fae 
into trouble, for she, in her impulsive way, had rushed 
from the palace stockade gate straight into O'Hara's 
arms. It so happened that Tautoa, the chief to whom 
Fae Fae was betrothed, caught them in each other's arms ! 
And my chum had made matters worse, for he had 
managed to give Tautoa a black eye in the melee that 
followed his mad presumption. It appeared that Fae Fae 
was now under strict surveillance. And, more, the head 
chiefs had laid a charge at the Government Presidency 
about the matter. And I believe that, even at that early 
date, a warrant was out for the arrest of O'Hara for 
disturbing the peace and forcing his presence on a native 
maid of royal blood. When O'Hara first unfolded his 
plans for abducting Fae Fae, I endeavoured to reason 
with him. 

" It's ridiculous, pal. You're talking like a South 
Sea novel. You can't seize a beautiful girl of royal 
blood, a princess, and carry her away from the palace 
like some old freebooter of the southern seas. Besides, 
we'll be arrested by the gendarmes. And there's the 
old Queen to be considered, her consort, her son, and, 
last and not least, Fae Fae's legitimate lover, Tautoa." 

O'Hara used a quite unprintable word as I mentioned 
that last name. Then he stared as though I were mad, 
and said : 

" Me ! talking like a novel ! I mean to have her." 

His eyes flashed as he blurted out his plans, telling 
me how easy it was to steal a girl and bolt off into 
the mountains! His chest swelled visibly over his 
thoughts. Holding up his glass of vile Papeete beer 
in one hand, melodramatic fashion, he lifted his chin 
and burst into some Irish song that told of maids clasped 
in the arms of impassioned lovers. As he finished his 
extemporization, the native girls who were standing at 



ABDUCTION OF A PRINCESS 117 

the shanty's door, murmured, *' Yorana ! Yorana ! " 
One dusky Tahitian belle, with large, lustrous eyes, 
crossed her bare, smooth arms and one timid knee, and, 
as she leaned against the door frame, gave a delicious 
pout, telling with admiring eyes all that a romantic maid 
can tell when gazing on a man whose favour she yearns 
to gain. 

Though I had sought by wordy wisdom to persuade 
O'Hara to abandon his mad idea of abducting Fae Fae 
from Pomare's palace, my heart was as enthusiastic 
about it all as was his own. The philosophy of the 
first fine careless rapture of youth was mine. I felt I 
was out in the world to live, if somewhat faintly, some 
of the glorious romance that poets wrote about. I well 
knew that the great crabbed philosophies were written 
by perished feathered quills on musty parchments, quills 
that once fluttered on living wings among the blossom- 
ing boughs. I knew that no pen, however inspired, could 
sing the impassioned philosophy of life as the throbbing 
red throat of the brown thrush can sing, or as O'Hara 
and I could live it. And, so, I must confess that the 
idea of the breadfruit sighing as we sat awaiting the 
sunset's close and O'Hara impatiently watching for the 
favourable moment to abduct a Tahitian princess from 
a pagan palace on a South Sea isle, seemed the perfect 
music and the most noble endeavour of the Psalm of 
Life! 

For several moments I compressed my brows as 
though in deepest meditation over the wisdom or folly 
of doing what O'Hara proposed. 

He watched me closely, then suddenly gripped my 
hand. 

" Pal, I'm with you ; it shall be done," I said. 

My Irish comrade was satisfied. He knew me. I 
hadn't stowed away on sailing and tramp ships, and 



118 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

lived with rats in coal bunkers on long voyages across 
tropic seas, without looking a bit determined when I 
had really made up my mind — well — to make a fool of 
myself ! 

I knew that Queen Pomare of Tahiti was allowed a 
certain amount of authority over her people. Though 
aged, she was an attractive, powerful-looking woman. 
It was also hinted by the officials that she still leaned 
towards her old creed. However that may have been, 
her retinue was made up of many old-time, ex-cannibal 
chiefs. One had only to go by night up the mountain 
slopes by Tamao to hear the low chanting of festival 
sounds coming from the solitary palace, sounds that 
were suspiciously like the wild night-wassailing of some 
frenzied heathenland! 

The very next night we made our plans. O'Hara 
smacked me on the back, and called down the blessings 
of the Virgin on my head for helping a pal in trouble. 
It was finally settled that we should set out on our ro- 
mantic, risky adventure after dusk, the very next day. 

The inevitable hour arrived. I stood beneath the palms 
at the arranged spot. 

" Are you ready, pal ? '* said O'Hara, as he met me. 

"I am!" said I; and then added: "I suppose you 
are determined to attempt to abduct Fae Fae ? '* 

" By the holy Virgin, yes ! " he muttered. 

" I can rely upon you that the maid knows of your 
intentions, and has agreed to bolt off into the moun- 
tains with you ? " said I. 

O'Hara gave a scornful laugh. It was then he told 
me that old Tapee had slipped, under the cover of night, 
into the palace, and had bribed one of the sentinels to 
deliver his billet-doux into Fae Fae's hands. 

" Ho ! so that's how you've managed it all, is it ? " 
I answered. 



ABDUCTION OF A PRINCESS 119 

I felt much relief; for I will admit that I knew O'Hara 
well enough to realize that he was likely to go off and 
seize a maid who knew nothing of his coming. At 
hearing that old Tapee was in the secret, I felt cheered 
up, and had greater faith in the result of the expedition. 
So off I went, down the forest track with O'Hara, on 
the wildest adventure into which I have ever plunged. 
We crept across the lonely Broome Road, and passed 
under the shades of the giant breadfruit trees. The 
stars were shining. Hardly a breath of wind disturbed 
the leaves of the mountain palms. O'Hara clutched 
me by the arms, as though he were afraid I might change 
my mind — and make a bolt. 

" I'm game; don't worry. I'll see you through," said I. 

" Faith and be shure, you're a good pal," said my 
adventurous, amorous comrade. 

Taking a large flask from his pocket, he handed it to 
me. Though not an imbiber of proof spirit, I took rather 
a bold nip, feeling that a little extra Dutch courage might 
not be amiss ere the night was out! We had arrived 
at the outskirts of the large cultivated space that half 
surrounded Queen Pomare's palace stockade. As we 
passed through the arcades, constructed by Nature's 
brooding handiwork of interlacing branches of tropical 
undergrowth twining round the first pillafs of giant 
trees, my heart fluttered slightly. 

" Is it some mad dream ? " I thought, as we stood 
on the little moonlit slope that faced the palatial stock- 
ade of Pomare's dwelling. Standing there, by O'Hara's 
side, I peeped down the palm-terraced groves and spotted 
the large one-storied, verandahed building. It had an 
ominous look about it. Then O'Hara took me up a 
track where I had never been before. 

"Keep in the shadows; don't expose yourself, for 
God's sake!" he whispered, as we stole onward. 



120 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

We arrived among the thickets of dense bamboos 
growing by the wooden gate that was the side entrance 
to the palace. We stood perfectly still and waited. 
O'Hara gave a low whistle. Our hearts beat like muf- 
fled drums as we stood there. I looked at the dim out- 
line of the palace. All was silent, phantom-like, in the 
rising moonlight. Only one small light flickered in the 
little latticed window-hole by the main entrance. 

" What's that light ? " quoth I in a hushed voice. 

" It's where the Queen sleeps/' replied my pal. 

"Is it really?" I whispered, as I thought in some 
mad way of the old romantic novels that I had read in 
my schooldays. 

Yes, and there was I, sure enough, with a mad Irish- 
man, outside a barbarian's palace, awaiting the psycho- 
logical moment to seize a heathen princess! 

We must have stood there for half an hour before 
O'Hara gave the fourth whistle and said, " She's being 
watched, that's what it is; otherwise, begorra, she'd 
have come out of that gate before now." 

" What shall we do now? " said I, feeling fit for any 
emergency as the spirit commenced to take effect. The 
romance of the whole situation began to bubble, to thrill 
in my soul. Indeed, I had become as enthusiastic as 
O'Hara over the prospective elopement of Fae Fa^. 

" Old pal," said he, " I'm going into the palace to 
seize her; that's what I'm going to do!" 

" Good Lord, really ! " said I, as visions arose of 
dramatic scenes that might ensue when we got into that 
eerie-looking, big wooden building. 

" Won't they hear us — and club us ? " said I. 

" Not they! I've been in the palace before by night; 
I know where Fae Fae sleeps, and it's no hard job to 
find her." 

'' You do, do you ! " thought I. Then O'Hara be- 



ABDUCTION OF A PRINCESS 121 

gan to creep down the orange grove and, like some ob- 
sequious shadow, I followed. 

Not a sound broke the primeval stillness as we curved 
round the small track that led to the main entrance of 
the palace. At that very moment a night bird, some- 
where up in the mangroves, burst into song. It gave 
a sharp scream as we passed like shadows beneath the 
trees, and then flapped away. We both leapt back into 
the deeper gloom. Our hearts nearly stopped, for lo! 
the bushy head of some high chief suddenly poked out 
of the half-open gate at the main entrance. We watched 
that big mop-head and fierce-looking face turn to the 
right and left, peer into the moonlight a moment, then 
we saw it withdrawn from view. 

" Fd like to give that cove one on his napper ! " whis- 
pered O'Hara, with a levity which I thought consider- 
ably out of place at such a time. " I know him; it's old 
thin-legs, the night sentinel. I've tried to bribe the old 
wretch, but 'twasn't any go." 

" Oh ! '' said I, for the want of saying something bet- 
ter at such a moment. Indeed, the most poignant phrases 
that the English language can twist together could not 
have expressed all that I felt. 

" What do you intend doing now ? " said I. 

" Why, I'm going to slip into the palace and see Fae 
Fae in her private chamber. She'll soon come when 
she sees us." 

" Are you sure she won't scream ? Don't you think 
it's a bit unwise, in the night-time, like this ? " 

" Blimey ducks, no ! " chuckled O'Hara. Thereupon 
I made up my mind to seize the blessed Queen herself, 
if O'Hara wished me to do so. 

To tell the truth, I had wondered if Fae Fae would 
not take fright at seeing me with O'Hara. It appeared 
that my comrade had wooed Fae Fae considerably in 



122 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

the little time he had known hen But I had only seen 
her twice — and there I was, bound for her sleeping- 
apartment in the dead of night. 

Once again we moved on. Arriving before a little 
door that led into a roomy apartment adjoining the west 
wing of the palace, O'Hara gendy pulled another door 
open. We both crept in. It was nearly pitch dark ; the 
faint rays of moonlight, peeping through chinks in the 
roof, just helped us to grope along. As we moved 
stealthily across the floor, I stumbled over a large cala- 
bash. We stood still, breathless with suspense. I looked 
around : on the walls, dimly revealed by the moonlight, 
hung old war-clubs, spears, and other ancient heirlooms 
of the Pomarean dynasty. We heard a door open, then 
it was shut again, for the sounds of distant laughter and 
heathen voices swiftly ceased. It came from somewhere 
on the other side of the courtyard, that portion of the 
palace where Queen Pomare and her suite dwelt. Once 
more we crept on. Passing across another room, we 
suddenly came out into a small courtyard. 

Turning to me, O'Hara whispered : 

*' You see that door over there, on the far side of 
that wooden building? Well, it opens into a long cor- 
ridor, and at the far end is the chamber where Fae Fae 
sleeps.'* 

I nodded. 

" Are you game to follow me, pal ? " he added. 

" I am ! " said I, as I clutched my revolver and thought 
how "gamey'' we might both soon be if we were dis- 
covered. 

I don't know if my story sounds like a sketch from 
some semi-comic opera, but I do know that it was a se- 
rious thing for us to attempt to get into a native girl's 
bedroom as we did that night. But, mind you, I believed 
implicitly in O'Hara's good intentions. Never once had 



ABDUCTION OF A PRINCESS 123 

I observed him take a liberty with a maid. He had the 
Celtic temperament, but was clean-minded, notwithstand- 
ing his sins. We opened the door that led down the cor- 
ridor to Fae Fae's bed-chamber; then we took a rather 
bold nip at the flask of whisky. In complete obedience 
to O'Hara's whispered directions, I at once went down 
on my knees, then, hand over hand and knee over knee, 
we began to travel down that dark, narrow corridor! 
A stream of moonlight crept through the airholes that 
were in the roof. I could just discern O'Hara's ragged 
coat-tails in front of me as I blindly groped along be- 
hind him. I saw the dim shadows of the palms waving 
about, silhouetted on the wooden walls as the winds 
stirred the forest trees outside. Arriving about half-way 
down the corridor, I whispered to my comrade : 

"Supposing she's asleep? Do you intend to seize 
her whilst she lies in bed? Won't she scream if she 
sees me with you, and awaken the whole palace?" 

I knew what English girls would do if they suddenly 
awoke and saw two sunburnt tramps on their knees, 
peering round the edge of their bedroom door at the 
dead of night. 

My relief was considerable when O'Hara whispered: 

" Don't worry ; Fae Fae expects me, and it's not her 
who is going to scream.*' Then, in a tense whisper, he 
added : " Besides, she sleeps alone, away from the rest 
of the palace folk.'* 

" Thank God for that much ! " thought I, as we once 
more started to creep, like two monstrous slugs, down 
the floor of the corridor. 

O'Hara suddenly stopped. My heart gave a slight 
flutter. I knew we had arrived outside Fae Fae's cham- 
ber. I heard my comrade give two soft taps — so, " tap ! " 
" tap ! " — on the door's bamboo panel with his knuckles. 
Eg,ch tap seemed to echo and re-echo down the silent 



124 . SOUTH SEA FOAM 

corridor. I was thankful that I had drunk deeply from 
the whisky-flask which O'Hara had so thoughtfully 
handed me. Had we been about to seize a heathen man, 
or even an old woman, the matter would have seemed 
different. Notwithstanding that I had knocked about 
the world, the thought of so rudely disturbing a maiden's 
slumber and those romantic ideals which I can find no 
name for here, had still a great influence over me. Con- 
sequently, I paused on the threshold of that chamber. 
She was an innocent girl, none need doubt that much. 
To the reader, who has never plunged into such a mid- 
night venture as I tell of here, I can confidently say 
that he would require a little artificial stimulant to buck 
his courage up were he placed under like circumstances. 
There's something eerie in creeping into a semi-heathen 
palace and crawling down an interminable corridor to 
seize a maid as she sleeps in her chamber. And all this, 
mind you, not for one's self, but for another! And, 
again, there was not only the danger of detection by 
that heathen crew to reckon with, but also the French 
officials, who would assuredly give us penal servitude in 
the calaboose (jail), or transport us to Noumea should 
they catch us on this mad venture. But for the fact 
that we had youth's superabundant confidence on our 
side, I am sure we should never have ventured on such 
an escapade. I recall the breathless hush of that su- 
preme moment when O'Hara once more gently tapped 
the maiden's door. 

** Fae Fae!" he whispered. 

How eagerly we listened! Only a faint moan came 
from the forest palms just outside, then all was silent 
again. 

" Begorra, she's not there," came in an agonized whis- 
per from O'Hara. 

Our hearts thumped — we heard a rustling sound, which 



ABDUCTION OF A PRIIsrCESS 125 

resembled a noise made by someone yawning. An un- 
comfortable suspicion flashed through my brain: Had 
O'Hara mistaken the room? and was that chamber oc- 
cupied by some mighty chief? 

" What's that ? " I said in a tense whisper, as that 
eerie sound came again, with the soft patter of bare 
feet. " Look out, pal ! " I whispered, instinctively duck- 
ing my head in some vague idea that a club was falling 
on it! 

O'Hara tapped again, then softly called the maid's 
name. I looked up, my heart in my mouth, as we 
crouched there, both on our hands and knees. The 
door creaked. We watched — and it was being slowly 
opened. Through a chink, that was no wider than two 
inches, peeped two sparkling eyes, half hidden by di- 
shevelled tresses — it was Fae Fae! 

In a swift, hoarse whisper O'Hara said: 

" It's only us, Faey." 

At once the door opened a little wider, and two as- 
tonished eyes looked down upon us, both there on our 
hands and knees ! 

" Oh, Messieurs, you be killed ! " she whispered, as 
she lifted her hands and gazed upon us in an awestruck 
manner. 

Slinking there, behind O'Hara's coat-tails, I gazed up 
at the maid through his armpits ! 

"Didn't you hear me whistle, Faey dearest?" said 
my comrade, as the astonished girl still stared at us in 
fright. 

" No, Monsieur Kara, I sleep fast," she said, rubbing 
her sleepy eyes. 

At this candid confession, O'Hara looked crestfallen. 
I, too, must confess that a dash of cold water seemed 
to have been thrown upon the fires of my romantic soul. 
I pinched my leg to convince myself that I was not 



126 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

dreaming. It was real enough, no dream at all. It 
was a solid me intruding into a girl's bed-chamber at 
the dead of night, ready to clutch the maid and help 
my comrade to carry her away into the moun- 
tains ! 

" Come, Fae Fae, don't go back on me, darlint," wailed 
O'Hara, as the pretty maid looked about in a bewil- 
dered way, as though hesitating as to what she ought to 
do vmder such distressing circumstances. 

At this moment I poked my head up from behind 
O'Hara and revealed my physiognomy clearly in the 
shifting moonlight. 

" Oui ! oui ! Awaie ! '' she woefully ejaculated, as she 
recognized my impertinent presence. Then she peered 
again, and said : " Tre bon ! it's nicer fiddle man ! " 

I rose to my feet as though I had just received a knight- 
hood, and bowed with such courtesy as I felt was due 
at such a moment. I may have blushed, but I do know 
that my heart warmed considerably to the possibilities 
of the whole business. Much of the girl's apprehension 
seemed to have vanished at discovering that it was I 
who had accompanied O'Hara on my hands and knees 
down that damned corridor! Ah me! As she stood 
there bathed in moonlight, her tiny blue chemise orna- 
mented with flowers, I quite envied O'Hara. The hibis- 
cus blossoms in her mass of rich-hued hair were crushed 
on that side where her pillowed head had lain but a mo- 
ment before in sleep. I felt the thrill of her presence. 
Standing there in the gloom, I saw O'Hara put forth 
his arms towards Fae Fae. 

" Come on, Faey," he whispered. 

Leaning forward in the gloom, Fae Fae misjudged 
the distance, and placed her mouth on my flushed cheek. 
Then it really seemed that the tender pressures of our 
groping hands got inextricably mixed up. I became 



ABDUCTION OF A PRINCESS 127 

bolder. Looking into the girl's face, I said in an ap- 
pealing way: 

" Come, Fae Fae, do come ! '* 

I felt that, to creep into a heathen's palace to help a 
maid to elope, and for the maid to refuse to come, would 
cast a slur on my idea of chivalry and romance such as 
I could never forget. I was immensely relieved when 
I noticed Fae Fae stoop and start shuffling about her 
chamber floor. She was hastily gathering together her 
spare clothing! 

" Awaie ! Messieurs ! " she cried softly. Then she 
held up a small bundle, and blushed through the bright- 
ness of her eyes. Gallantly I leaned forward and clutched 
those delicate garments that made up Fae Fae's trous- 
seau! As for O'Hara, he grinned and then stared in 
surprise, as he observed my correct manner when I 
bowed and offered Fae Fae my arm. (He hadn't read 
Alexandre Dumas, Byron, Shelley, and Keats, and slept 
with his dreaming head on a volume of Don Quixote.) 

Suddenly a door banged somewhere across the palace 
courtyard; we distinctly heard distant sounds of laughter 
and indistinct voices. Then silence came; the door had 
been closed again. 

" Come on, there's no time to lose," I whispered, as 
I clutched the pretty sandals that Fae Fae hurriedly 
picked up from beneath her bamboo couch. Down the 
corridor we crept. As Fae Fae caught hold of my hand 
I returned the gentle pressures of that frightened Tahi- 
tian maid. I gathered that she did not realize the serious- 
ness of the business. As we stole along, a puff of wind 
came down the narrow corridor, and her mass of un- 
kempt hair floated softly against my face. I felt as 
though some beautiful creation of romance had material- 
ized before my eyes, as a silken tress touched my lips. 
Only O'Hara's heavy breathing, as he led the way, and 



128 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

Fae Fae's frightened gasps, made me realize that the 
whole business was real enough. We all gave a deep sigh 
of relief as we stole out into the night. A mighty alarm 
had seemed to thunder down the silence of that palace 
corridor. Then O'Hara informed me that he had missed 
the track whereby we had entered the palace. It was 
unfortunate, for it necessitated our all climbing over a 
huge wooden wall that ran along the south side of the 
track that led to the entrance of the palace stockade. 

" Come along, Fae Fae," said I cheerfully, as the cool 
air of the moonlit night and the glory of physical move- 
ment raised my spirits. O'Hara clambered up to the 
top of the wall first; releasing Fae Fae*s trembling hand, 
I followed. It was not hard climbing, for the huge, 
upright logs were thickly overgrown with tough vine. 
'' Look out ! " said I, as I stood in that elevated posi- 
tion and nearly stumbled. Squatting side by side up 
there, we looked down. Fae Fae stared up at us; she 
was half hidden in the forest ferns. O'Hara and I 
clasped each other's hand to get a better grip, then, bend- 
ing down, we very carefully gripped hold of Fae Fae's 
extended hands and slowly hauled her up to the top of 
the wall. 

"Oh, Messieurs, it's tellible!" murmured the fright- 
ened girl as she stood high up there beside us. She 
shivered as she put forth her arms in fright to retain 
her balance. Her tiny, blue diaphanous robe was out- 
blown as the night wind sighed across the forest height. 
" Don't be frightened. Miss Faey,'* I murmured, as 
the girl swayed in terror, pressed my hand, and looked 
appealingly into my eyes as we stood up there. 

O'Hara and I gripped her carefully by the arms, 
swayed her to and fro in space for a second, then dropped 
her sofdy down into the mossy growth and fern of the 
forest on the other side of the wall. 



ABDUCTION OF A PRINCESS 129 

" Awaie ! " she cried, as she looked up at us. 

Then my comrade and I slid gently down, like threaded 
spiders, into the mossy scrub. 

For a moment we stood breathless, as Fae Fae clung 
to our arms, trembling in fear. To the right lay the 
main track; once across that, we could bolt into the 
forest depth, where we would be safe. I awaited 
O'Hara's signal. I was taking no risks. O'Hara knew 
the place too. 

Suddenly my comrade said, " Now ! " and off we went, 
rushing like three phantoms across the exposed moonlit 
track. 

" Holy St. Patrick ! '* breathed my chum, as we stood 
behind the thick clump of bananas that divided us from 
the twelve yards that we must yet pass ere we were out 
of sight of the main entrance to the palace. 

We were suddenly paralyzed by hearing a terrific yell. 
iWe had been observed! That yell smashed to atoms 
all my indecision as to what was best to do. Metaphor- 
ically speaking, it arrayed me in armour, equipped me 
with all the necessary weapons to fight a desperate battle 
for life and for the protection of the trembling girl be- 
side me. 

I looked down the track: out of the main entrance 
had rushed three stalwart Tahitian chiefs. They were 
quivering with excitement. We remained standing stilL 
I felt strangely calm. 

" We're in for it now,'* said I. 

O'Hara shook his fist and picked up a large stone. 
A glorious feeling of exultation thrilled me at the 
thought of the coming race for life. It was just in my 
line, whereas creeping on my hands and knees down a 
corridor was dead against the grain. 

Fae Fae gave a faint cry. It roused us. Simul- 
taneously we dashed away into the depths of the bread- 



130 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

fruits and coco-palms. What a sight! — Fae Fae, bare- 
footed, encumbered only by her pretty native muniu 
(chemise) of scanty width, raced ahead, as O'Hara and 
I, our arms held high in racing attitude, puffed on 
behind ! 

"Follow her, pal; she knows the way," murmured 
G'Hara, as Fae Fae's dusky flying heels glittered in 
the moonlight about twelve yards ahead of us! Though 
I admired that impulsive Irish comrade of mine, I in- 
wardly thought what an ass he was; for, though our 
pursuers were hard on our heels, I distinctly heard him 
chuckling to himself, making ecstatic remarks about 
Fae Fae's swaying figure as she fled down the forest 
track! I turned my head to see how it went with the 
enemy. I was extremely disconcerted at observing them 
coming up over the ridge of the rising ground, quite dis- 
tinct in the brilliant moonlight. A giant of a fellow 
was gaining ground, was far ahead of the other pursuers. 

"Wait!" I shouted in O'Hara's ear. "We must 
frighten them somehow." I knew, well enough, that 
we were in the wrong, that we could be legally charged 
with a serious, very serious offence. I felt some sad, 
prophetic pain of a club falling on my romantic skull 
and my head tumbling into the official guillotine basket. 
This sudden visualizing freak of my imagination was 
made the more viKrid through my seeing Fae Fae racing 
along the track like some frightened child (she was 
little more than a child in mind), as I lumbered on 
behind her, clutching her delicate trousseau under my 
arm. Indeed I felt the guiltiest of the three. Fae Fae 
was a child of the forest; O'Hara was another child, 
since he was madly in love; while I? — well, instead of 
giving wise counsel, I was there, an accessory before 
and after the fact, and with the maid's scanty wardrobe 
under my arm! Preposterous! 



ABDUCTION OF A PRINCESS 131 

"Go on; never mind me," said I, when G'Hara 
suddenly stopped dead short. There, on the track, I 
held up my revolver and fired over the head of the 
mop-headed savage who was a hundred yards ahead 
of the others. They slowed down. I saw the leader 
wave his hand, and heard him yell out some words in 
his native lingo, something that ended with the words 
" Fae Fae ! '' 

On hearing that name, O'Hara gasped out : 

" Why, it's him, that damned Tautoa, who wants to 
marry my Faey ! " 

It was with immense relief that I noticed that the 
pursuers had slowed down and were apparently fright- 
ened at discovering that I was armed. We couldn't out- 
run Fae Fae. O'Hara and I had all we could do to 
catch up to her as she still raced on, speeding round the 
curves of the forest track. Indeed at times we could 
not see her at all, knowing that she preceded us only 
because of the tiny, smoke-like clouds of dust that we 
raced through, the diamond-like powder that her bare, 
flying feet stirred and left behind as she raced along the 
track. Sometimes the path wound into the full light of 
the moon; it was then that we sighted Fae Fae's flying 
figure and floating hair as we thundered along behind 
her. I am sure the scene must have looked like some 
burlesque or the rehearsal for a cinematograph picture. 
As we passed the deep lagoons by the shore, weird 
shadows whipped across the imaged, broken moons that 
were shining in the still, glassy depths! For, as the fire- 
flies danced in the leafy bamboo glooms, I saw Fae Fae's 
image, with flying hair, race across the lagoon's surface 
to the right of us, though she, herself, had passed round 
the bend and was quite out of sight! To the southward 
stretched, for miles and miles, the palm-clad slopes. It 
seemed as if wt were racing across a vast landscape oil- 



132 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

painting! To the north-west rose the pinnacled range 
of La Diademe. We had reached the Broome Road. 
As we raced across it we just missed a crowd of hurry- 
ing Chinamen who worked in the cool of night in the 
plantations of vanilla, coffee, sugar-cane, and orange 
groves. 

" Hon kong ching chi chow kow ! " yelled a straggler, 
as his pig-tail tossed up, and he fell sprawling in the 
dust. 

"One for his napper!" breathed O'Hara, as he re- 
covered his balance and we rushed across the plantation. 
We were safe! There stood Tapee*s bungalow to the 
left of us. All would have gone well had not O'Hara 
stumbled as he leapt across the stream. He gave a yell 
of pain, and fell crash on his face. 

Fae Fae gave a cry. Then she and T, breathing heavily, 
picked our comrade up. He groaned as I examined him. 
I was relieved to find that he had done no more than 
sprain his ankle. At this moment a figure emerged 
from the shadows — it was Tapee. 

"You all right? — where's Fae Fae?" said the old 
man, as he peered into the jungle depths around us. 
Fae Fae, who was hiding behind the dwarf coco-palms, 
heard Tapee's voice, and revealed herself. On sighting 
the girl, the old idol-worshipper grinned from ear to ear. 

" You clever wahine to run way from palace with kind 
white mans." 

It appeared that O'Hara had acquainted the chief 
that he was going to get Fae Fae to elope with him 
from the palace that night. Tapee was delighted to be 
of assistance to O'Hara, for he had some grudge against 
Tautoa, the chief who was to marry Fae Fae. He was 
also pleased to annoy Pomare, who had refused to allow 
Tapee to attend the palace festivities. 

When I informed Tapee that the gendarmes were 



ABDUCTION OF A PRINCESS 133 

already on our track, he simply rubbed his hands and 
grinned as though the trouble was over. Seeing O'Hara 
standing on one leg and holding the other off the ground, 
Tapee and I escorted him into the bungalow hard by. 
He groaned as we laid him down on the bed mats. 
On pulling off his boot I saw that he was quite out of 
action so far as walking was concerned — his ankle was 
swollen to the size of an orange, a lump on the off-side. 

Fae Fae, noticing the injury, gave a wail of despair. 
Then Tapee, to my surprise, looked up and said: 

" Oh, Messieurs, what shall we do? The popy priest 
am waiting to marry Fae Fae and Papalagi O'Hara all 
this whiles down in Papeete." 

This was the first intimation I had received that 
O'Hara had made the necessary preparations to have a 
Christian marriage with Fae Fae. It was just like 
him, for, notwithstanding his being a scallawag, he was 
ever ready to do the right thing at the right 
moment. 

" Go, quick, and let the priest know that the marriage 
is put off till another night," moaned O'Hara. And so 
Tapee went off to postpone the wedding. Fae Fae lifted 
her hands to the roof and wailed out, " Saprista ! Aloe, 
tua " and " Mon Dieu ! " (Fae Fae spoke broken French 
as well as English). I was more than glad to see that 
wedding postponed. I felt it was quite enough for one 
niofht's work to abduct the maid in readiness for the 
wedding, and, moreover, Fae Fae was trembling like 
a leaf and appeared very neurotic. She was a very 
high-strung girl. Indeed I saw how artful-hearted Tapee 
had played with ease on the girVs romantic, sensitive 
temperament. 

When Tapee returned, about half an hour after, he 
at once prepared supper. We were all famished. We 
closed the door and bolted it. Tapee said that on his 



134, SOUTH SEA FOAM 

way back after seeing the priest, he had heard a lot 
of French officials discussing Fae Fae's disappearance 
from the palace. 0*Hara groaned and Fae Fae wept, 
while I moodily ate mangoes and stewed, juicy fruits, 
and wondered what my relatives would think when they 
heard that I had been hanged for abducting maidens 
in the South Seas! We passed a most wretched night. 
I dozed off once, and dreamed that the world was a vast 
guillotine, with me sitting in its receiving-basket as Time, 
and all the stars danced sorrowfully around me, ere the 
blade fell and severed my connection with mundane 
things. When I awoke, O'Hara was looking very ill ; 
but he gave a faint smile as Fae Fae held his head and 
passed her fingers through his curly hair. At daybreak 
Tapee went out and hired a kind of char-a-banc owned 
by a wizened Chinaman. We took the Chinaman into 
our confidence, gave him a good tip, and promised him 
a lot more than we could ever give him. To tell the 
truth, if a Chinaman gives one his word of honour, 
he seldom breaks it. I'd sooner trust a Chinaman than 
many pious people whom I've unfortunately met. When 
we got into that wagon the bottom nearly dropped out. 
It was old and rotten. The horse was an object for 
pity; it moved at a mile an hour, and the angles of its 
bones looked decidedly like the angles of the guillotine. 
We crouched in the bottom of the cart, safe from the 
vigilant eyes of the officials who were on the look-out 
for us. When we arrived in the Chinese quarter of 
Papeete, I hired a room in a fan-tan den, and O'Hara 
helped me to put up a bed. When all was comfortable, 
O'Hara fell asleep, and I crept out into the forest and 
went back to Tapee's bungalow. When I arrived there, 
Fae Fae was weeping bitterly. I saw that she had 
become sane, and regretted her flight from the palace. 
She was evidendy terrified in her reflection over the 



ABDUCTION OF A PRINCESS 135 

punishment she would receive from the Queen's hands. I 
tried my best to soothe her. 

" Oh, Monsieur, I so unhappy. Poor Monsieur Ilisham 
hurt himself too. I feel lone, and Queen Pomare find 
me out and punish me, I know, I know!" she 
wailed. 

" Don't worry, Fae Fae," said I soothingly, as she 
gave me a tender, sympathetic glance. I saw the tears 
in her eyes as she stared up at me through her dishevelled 
tresses. Ah, beautiful hair it was! The room was dimly 
lit by the latticed window-hole. She did look a plaintive 
creature as she sat there swaying in her grief. I smelt 
the sweet odours of the languishing flowers that still 
dangled, clinging among her scented tresses, when she 
placed her hand caressingly on my shoulder, and mur- 
mured : 

" Oh, take me back to palace, Monsieur." 

We were close together, her eyes gazing beseechingly 
into mine. Her smooth brow, bright in the glory of 
her vanilla-scented hair, was near my lips. God knows 
that I would not betray the trust reposed in me by a 
good comrade; but I have my weaknesses. Her hand 
pressed mine. I somehow tripped forward, and, in some 
inexplicable entanglement of the senses, my lips touched 
hers. Ah me! She gazed deeply into my e.yes. In a 
moment I realized what I had done. I hung my head 
as she gazed on, and then, to my astonishment, she 
swiftly lifted my hand and kissed it passionately. I 
thought of O'Hara, probably asleep on his bed mat and 
of the implicit trust he reposed in me. I made a trer 
mendous effort so that my outward demeanour should 
have no twinship with the turmoil of conflicting thoughts 
within me. Inclining my head affectionately, but at the 
same time forcing a melancholy, sober aspect to my 
blushing visage, I managed to blurt out: 



136 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

** Oh, Fae Fae, child, my heart is heavy in the thoughts 
of your sorrows. I don't know how to advise you! " 

It was a near go, I know. Indeed, had I partaken a 
little more liberally of the toddy that Tapee had given 
me from his huge flask, my memory of the whole business 
would not have made such pleasant reading, I feel sure 
of that. Sober reflections made me realize that, under 
the circumstance, the best thing for the girl to do would 
be to go back to the palace. I fully realized the clumsy 
way we had conducted ourselves and the seriousness of 
the gendarmes being on our tracks. 

At this moment Tapee opened the door and walked 
in. I was relieved by his presence, but, to my con- 
sternation, Fae Fae's attitude towards me remained 
the same! Kissing the girl again, as though she were a 
child, I looked her straight in the eyes, and said : 

"I must get away and see O'Hara; it is unsafe for 
me to stop here." 

The girl responded to this only by falling on her 
knees before me. 

"Oh, Monsieur, stay! stay!*' she cried in a plaintive 
voice. 

It was then I noticed the wild, strange stare of her 
eyes. I gave Tapee an interrogative glance. He touched 
his brow significantly. I did not quite comprehend 
his meaning at the time, but subsequent events soon 
enlightened me as to the state of Fae Fae's mind. 
Promising Tapee and the girl that I would return soon, 
I hastened from their presence and went back to O'Hara. 
He was awake and in great pain when I arrived at our 
diggings. I sat with him till dusk, and all through the 
night poured cold water on his sprained ankle. 

I well knew that while he was lame we had little 
chance of clearing away, if the gendarmes heard of our 
whereabouts. 



ABDUCTION OF A PRINCESS 137 

Once again, at O'Hara's request, I went off to see how 
Fae Fae was. Arriving at Tapee's bungalow I found 
him trembhng and muttering in a strange way. 

" What's the matter? " I said. 

** Oh, Masser, she gone! She run away in night; she 
go kill herself, I sure ! " 

After the old fellow had rambled on a good deal, I 
gathered that he had awakened at daybreak, and, 
discovering that Fae Fae had flown, had spent the 
morning in searching likely places where she might have 
hidden herself. I at once got Tapee to send a trusted 
native friend up to the palace to find out if Fae Fae had 
returned home. After a while the native came back 
full of excitement, and informed us that the Queen and 
her retinue of chiefs had gone off to the French Presi- 
dency to inform the officials that Princess Fae Fae had 
been abducted from the palace by two white men. That 
bit of information seemed to waken me up. I left Tapee 
at once. 

** It's no good using language like that," I said, chid- 
ingly to O'Hara, as I rubbed his ankle with coco-nut 
oil. 

By the next day he could just manage to limp along. 
He was determined to search for Fae Fae, though I had 
tried to persuade him to do otherwise. That same day 
he seemed very depressed as he sat under the palms 
singing to me. (He always sang when he was feeling 
melancholy. ) 

" She'll do herself some injury," he said. 

** She'll turn up," I said soothingly, though I must 
admit I felt dubious about it all. I thought of the girl's 
strange manner, how she had danced round that idol; 
I was convinced that she was no ordinary girl. 

That same evening we walked into the forest near 
Katavio. We were intending to meet Tapee, w^ho had 



138 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

informed us that he would be in his old hut in that part 
of the forest where his idol was hidden. 

I tried to cheer O'Hara up as we passed under the 
arch-like banyans that grew on the outskirts of the 
wooded country. Then we sat down by the lagoons 
till darkness came. Suddenly we were startled by 
hearing far-off sounds like the singing of a woman's 
beautiful voice. I jumped to my feet. There was some- 
thing eerie about the night as we listened. Then it came 
again, the long, low, sweet refrain of an old-time 
Tahitian himine. Bucking up our courage we stole 
forward, making for the direction where the singing 
came from. Even the winds seemed hushed, not a sound 
disturbing the silence of the forest. It seemed as if 
O'Hara and I walked a stage whereon some thrilling 
South Sea drama was being enacted ; the tall trees looked 
unreal, even the wide roof over us might have been some 
tremendous dark canvas bespangled with stars. The 
weird, flute-like cadenza of the nightingale up in the 
branches of the flamboyants did not destroy the unreal 
effect as it flew off. 

" This way," I whispered, as my comrade limped 
along. 

We were standing on the wooded elevation just before 
the spot where we had first caught Tapee worshipping 
his wooden image. Moonrise, somewhere to the south- 
ward, behind the mountains, was sending a pale brilliance 
over the rugged landscape. That weird singer of the 
forest, or whatever it was, had ceased to sing. Then it 
came again, a weird, tender wailing! O'Hara's big 
form was leaning against mine when the surprise came : 
staring there between the tree runks, we saw the old 
idol again and, careering around that hideous wooden 
deity, that which looked like a phantom girl of the 
woods! I had travelled the world over and seen some 



ABDUCTION OF A PRINCESS 139 

stange things, but had never seen so weird a sight before. 

" It's Fae Fae," said O'Hara, as he stumbled on his 
sprained ankle. 

" Impossible ! " I responded in a mechanical way. 

" She's dead, and has come back to dance where she 
first met me!" re-wailed my love-sick Irish comrade. 

The girl did look misty ! I looked and wondered, not- 
withstanding my cynicism over such things as ghosts. 
I felt that perhaps it was Fae Fae's ghost dancing before 
us ! I had read of such things, and had met old women 
who swore they had seen the dead doing strange, unac- 
countable things. 

We both stood still, strangely calm, as the girl whirled 
and sang in her wild career, her diaphanous robe flutter- 
ing out to the breeze or clinging closely to her misty-like 
figure. Then she lifted her arms and moved towards 
us, her eyes wide open, apparently staring into vacancy. 
The flowers in her unkempt hair, all crumpled, gave 
the one touch that told of something real. It was 
evident that she had not observed us, for in another 
moment she was again whirling around the space, 
chanting to the deaf, wooden ears of the massive idol. 
As she passed by us she came so close that I felt the 
rush of cool air caused by her swift movements. Though 
her figure looked ghost-like, I was still extremely scepti- 
cal. I knew that mortality, when transformed into that 
blessed spiritual state that is supposed to follow death, 
must of a necessity be unable to create any impression 
through coming into contact with the material elements 
of mortality. Indeed, I knew that singing itself was an 
impossibility, since it necessitated an inflection and per- 
fect contraction in the throat of the singer. I resolved 
to seize the first opportunity to substantiate my human 
suspicions as to the possibility of the figure before us 
being a transfiguration of her whom we had once known 



140 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

in mortal shape as Fae Fae. The opportunity presented 
itself forthwith. Fae Fae's apparent wraith, with arms 
outspread, the body swerving with rhythmical beauty, 
was still flitting noiselessly round the small space, com- 
ing toward us ! 

" Keep back ! " I whispered to O'Hara, who was 
staring over my shoulder, endeavouring to get a better 
glimpse of the figure. On she came, seemingly draped 
in veils of the moonlight that was falling through the 
overspreading, dark-fingered palm-leaves. Her lips had 
begun a chant, her head turned slightly sideways as 
on her tripping flight she approached and stared at the 
mighty, yellow-toothed, wooden deity. In a moment 
she was upon us. I swiftly thrust forth my hand as she 
flitted past. 

"A phantom!" I gasped, as my fist passed right 
through the folds of her attire and then seemingly 
through her form! For a moment I could only stare. 
A vulture screeched high in the banyans. O'Hara 
crossed himself and murmured a portion of some Ave 
Maria, terror-struck. ** Impossible ! preposterous ! " 
thought I to myself. Then I remembered how I had 
distinctly felt the material of her robes appeal to my 
sense of touch as my fist apparently went through her 
figure; yes, something real and material was there. I 
had simply missed touching her solid figure; that was it, 
I felt sure. " O'Hara," I whispered, and my voice 
sounded cracked as I muttered, "it's no ghost; it's her, 
Fae Fae, right enough. She's mad, out of her mind ! '' 

"No! Mad!" groaned O'Hara, as he jumped down 
from the banyan bough where he had leapt in fright, 
and peered between the breadfruit trunks. I tried 
hard to hold him back as he rushed forward; but it 
was too late — a piece of his ragged coat came off in my 
hand! 



ABDUCTION OF A PRINCESS 141 

Fae Fae gave a terrified scream as she spied him. 

" It's me ! your O'Hara, darlint ! " yelled my comrade, 
as the girl, turning round, stared at him in a wild, vacant 
way. Then, with a frightened scream that thrilled us 
with horror, she fled away into the depths of the 
forest. 

I also rushed off, following O'Hara, who bolted after 
her. He had not gone far when he tripped and fell with 
a crash. He gave a groan as he held up his afflicted 
foot. I at once came to a standstill. I was not in the 
mood to go chasing after a mad native girl. Besides, 
I had had about sufficient of O'Hara's love affairs. 
O'Hara was inconsolable that night. At daybreak we 
were up and ready to go forth in an endeavour to hear 
something about Fae Fae. Indeed, O'Hara seemed 
more determined than ever to find her. We had at first 
intended to go and see Tapee; but Tapee saved us that 
trouble by suddenly walking into our apartments. Be- 
fore we could get a chance to tell the old chief of our 
adventure with Fae Fae, he had started gabbling like one 
demented. 

" Fae Fae, she go mad ! and, O Papalagi, that 
Tautoa, her lover, he have found her crying in the night 
in the forest, all 'lone," said the old dark man. 

" No ! " we both exclaimed in one breath. 

'* Ah, yes, Messieurs, it all-e-samee true. Fae Fae am 
now back in palace, they got her now, and Queen Pomare 
am in terrible rage with white mans. I knower that she 
am going to send gendarmes after you and Monsieur 
O'Hara." 

The way O'Hara raved and carried on is indescribable. 
He got quite drunk before midday. Then we were 
obliged to fly from our lodgings and hide away under 
Tapee's protection. For, sure enough, a warrant was 
really out for both O'Hara and myself for trespass and 



142 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

the abduction of Fae Fae, who from childhood had 
suffered from mental affliction ! 

It was Tapee who gave us this last bit of infonnation. 
As the old chief crept into the disused native hut and, 
squatting down by us, told us these things, much became 
clear to me. I recalled many things about Fae Fae's 
manner, which, though fascinating and romantic, seemed 
out of the normal even in a native maid. We hid in 
that hut for three days, safe from the French officials; 
but I felt pretty gloomy as I thought of the prospect 
of our getting three years in the island calaboose. I gave 
out no hint of my qualms to O'Hara, but I well knew 
that there was a good chance of both of us being trans- 
ported to the convict settlement at /// Nou, Noumea! 
The following night, however, we secured an old canoe, 
through the help of Tapee, and paddled round to 
Matavai Bay, where we heard that a tramp steamer 
was anchored. 

And the next day, as we heard the tramping far 
overhead and the dull pomp-e-te-pomp of engines, we 
both crept forth, moved our cramped, huddled limbs, 
and groaned. I chewed a morsel off one of our four 
coco-nuts. Then I caught a shadowy glimpse of 
O'Hara's sweating black face as he took a drink from the 
water-bottle, and groped with his hands amongst the 
tiers of coal and terrific heat. 

" Come on, this way ! " I gasped, as I crawled along 
in that monstrous tomb where we found ourselves buried 
alive! "That's better!" I said, as I felt a whiff of 
purer air come along some dark, labyrinthine way. 
O'Hara sat by me in the gloom, groping about as he 
carefully replaced the water-bottle and coco-nut in my 
portmanteau (an old green baize bag that I always car- 
ried when I travelled incognito). 

Then O'Hara climbed up on my shoulders and peered 



ABDUCTION OF A PRINCESS 143 

through the little round hole just above our heads. 
For a long time he stared, gazing away to the far south- 
west horizon, where rose the rugged pinnacles of La 
Diadem, still visible. 

" We're safe enough now. They won't catch us, I'll 
bet," said I. 

*' Ah, my darlint Fae Fae ! I'll never be happy again." 
" Yes, you will," I murmured soothingly, as O'Hara 
still gazed through that dirty coal-bunker's glass port- 
hole, staring wistfully so as to get the last glimpse, as 
sunset touched the mountain palms of far-away Tahiti! 
We were stowaways down in the hold of a tramp steamer, 
far out at sea, outbound for Honolulu ! 



CHAPTER VII. THE HEATHEN'S GARDEN OF 
EDEN 

Tangalora the Samoan Scribe — Where the Gods and 
Goddesses first met in Council — The Materials of which 
the first Mortal Children were Fashioned — The first 
Wondering Men — The first Women — How the first 
Babies came to their Mothers. 

IT was nearly three months before I found myself 
in Samoa again. O'Hara had shipped from Hawaii 
for the Solomon Isles, and I had signed on as '' deck- 
hand " on a fore-and-aft schooner that was bound for 
Apia. I missed the society of my Irish comrade; but 
we met long after, as will be seen in the last chapters 
of this book. However, I soon made another friend, 
for I came across a high chief, Tangalora, who was an 
aged Samoan. I came to value his friendship greatly. 
He dwelt in a cave on the shores of Savaii Isle, a cave 
wherein he lived in primitive comfort and seemed happy 
enough. He was one of the last of the wandering 
Samoan scribes — men who, with tappa robe flung across 
the left shoulder, wandered from village to village in 
pursuit of their romantic calling. These scribes would 
enter the small pagan villages at sunset, take their 
stand on the village forum-stump (sometimes a tree 
trunk or a heap of coral stone that denoted where some 
mighty warrior or poet was buried), then, lifting one arm 
towards the sky, commence to pour forth in dramatic 
fashion their own versions of the old mythological tales 
and legends. Such a scribe was Tangalora, with whom 
I became on the most intimate terms. As I have said, 

144 



HEATHEN'S GARDEN OF EDEN 145 

Tangalora was a very old man. I believe he was nearly 
eighty years of age. Consequently, he was unable to 
travel from village to village singing his romantic 
chants and legends to Samoan maids and youths. I 
found him a most agreeable old poet, perfect in every 
way, except that I noticed a tinge of jealousy arose 
whenever I spoke of his contemporaries. But even that 
very human failing was forgivable, for competition was 
keen among the poets of those days, and I myself heard 
many followers of the Muse, as they stood on those 
Parnassian heathen slopes, cursing tho lying tongue of 
some wandering scribe who had forestalled them by 
arriving at the forum-stump before they did. How- 
ever, it's not my wish to go into detail over Tangalora's 
failings ; all I will attempt is to tell from my own impres- 
sions some of the incidents of the extempore verse which 
he rattled off in his cavern homestead. I must first say 
that he used this cavern as a lecture hall as well as a 
homestead, charging a small fee to the native men and 
crowds of children who collected outside his rocky door 
at sunset. It was a sight worth seeing as those little 
native children, their eyes bright with mystery, waited 
to enter the cavern and hear the wonderful old wizard 
man, Tangalora, tell of the mysteries of shadowland. It 
was such a sight that met my eyes when I arrived at that 
cavern's entrance, as eager as any of the forest children, 
I am sure. 

The sun was setting on the sea skyline and the shadows 
falling over the mountains as Tangalora sat on his coral 
throne at the far end of his weird-lit cavern hall. He 
was fully decorated with all the insignia of his office, 
wearing his tappa robe, and with his ornamental war- 
club by his side, as he sat there before me. 

" Talofa ! '' he said, and all the children responded : 

"Talofa, O Tangalora!" 



146 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

Then he said that which translated into our language 
would run in this wise : 

"Now then, fantoes (children), come round close to 
me, my sight is dim; sit by my knees, for I am old." 

In a moment the tawny children of the south were 
hustling and bustling to secure their favourite position 
at the feet of the aged poet. Placing his hand to his 
wrinkled mouth, he coughed twice, as he always did ere 
he commenced to tell his stories. 

" Are you all here ? " His voice trembled into echoes. 

*' We are all here ! " cried the children, as they crossed 
their arms and legs and prepared to listen attentively. 
Then he began as follows : 

" Thousands of years ago, when the sun, the moon, 
and the stars shone in the sky and saw no one alive 
on the isles of these seas, the heathen gods were walking 
across the wide floors of Mbau. Suddenly Raitumaibulii, 
who was the god of Fruit and Taro, said : * I say, look 
at that great ocean shining under the sun down there 
above unpeopled, palm-clad isles.' Then the god con- 
tinued: ' Is it not a shame that all those beautiful palms 
and those breadfruit trees of mine should be laden with 
such nice fruit and yet none there to eat of it?' 'It 
really does seem a pity,' replied the god of Fire; and 
he continued : ' I also think it sad that none can light 
fires in those deep forests. Look how comfortable they 
would feel were they to see my flames brightly shining 
beneath the palms by night.' As the god Raitumaibulii 
and the god of Fire ceased speaking and sighed over 
their thoughts, the beautiful heathen goddess of Mburoto 
(the Paradise of Love and Bliss) came up to them and 
said : * Ah ! I have just heard your lament. I too feel 
sad to think that there are no handsome youths and 
maidens in those beautiful leafy forests.' As the two 
gods listened and gazed on her beauty, she lifted her 



HEATHEN'S GARDEN OF EDEN 147 

hands and lovely eyes towards the mountains of 
Mburoto, and continued in this wise : ' Oh ! think how 
pleased the moons would be to light up the eyes of hand- 
some lovers and reveal the bronze-hued faces of pretty 
maidens if they roamed those now silent lands.' It was 
then that the great Thangi-Thangi, the god of Hate and 
Sin, stepped forth. He, too, looked thoughtfully down 
on those far-distant beautiful isles and murmured : 
* What a waste, what a waste it is, when I think how 
I could make the folk of a world to hate each other and 
deeply sin.' 

" The goddess of Love, who was listening to Thangi- 
Thangi, said : ' Look here, you are not wanted down 
there. I know well enough that if you had anything to 
do with the making of the folk of another world, they 
would never be really happy folk.' As the beautiful 
goddess said this, her daughter came forward. She had 
eyes like unto fire, and a serpent was nestling at her 
breast. Gazing up into the face of the goddess of Love, 
she said : ' I am Jealousy, your sinful child ; but may I 
help you to make the new folk for that lovely country, 
those silent isles so far away, down there ? ' 

" For a long time the goddess of Love gazed across the 
terraced mountains of Mbau. As she reflected, her 
hands were arched over her eyes that shone like two 
lovely moons that had a bright star in their centre. 
Slowly turning, she gazed sadly into her daughter's dark, 
fiery eyes, and said : 

" ' I suppose you must come and help me when I am 
making handsome men and beautiful women. Of course, 
I shall have to make a few ugly mortals, so that the 
favoured ones may see that they are handsome.* Then 
the goddess sighed and said : ' So you must be there to 
kiss their lips, that they may have the spirit to look 
after the one they love.' 



148 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

" After the gods and goddesses of Mbau had assembled 
in solemn council, they decided that it would be best to 
make living people who could be happy on the isles 
situated away down beneath the sun. ' So shall it be,' 
they all muttered, as they stalked across the magic 
mountains of Mburoto, where they at once began to 
gather wonderful flowers and weeds, stones, bits of fire, 
and cloudy skeins of moonlight and starlight. For it 
was from the essential materials of Paradise that they 
must make the children of the world that was beneath 
the sun. 

" It was then that the aged goddess of Sorrow, who 
had stood silently behind, said : ' I also must come to 
help you.' 

'' ' Must you come?' said the goddess of Love. And 
the goddess of Sorrow^ replied : ' It must be I alone 
who shall gather the compassionate cry of the winds 
in the forest, the bundles of old sunsets, the long-ago 
wail of blue sea-waves, and the songs of melancholy, 
small-throated birds.' 

" * But must we have such things? Cannot we make 
children without your help, O goddess of Sorrow?' 

"And Sorrow answered: * However beautiful you 
made the children, even though their eyes were like 
unto the beauty of thine own, still they would not be 
happy without being fashioned of those things that I 
must gather from the graves of a million dead moons.' 

" * So shall it be,' said the goddess of Love, as she 
sighed and kissed Sorrow's tender, trembling hand. 

Now then ! ' said Atuaa, the chief vassal of Ndengi. 
' Come along ! Come along ! ' Then, lo ! on the beams 
of threaded moonlight that were falling down the 
heavens of shadowland into the dark regions of the 
other world, the gods and goddesses slid softly away, 
monstrous, shadowy figures as they passed down, down 



HEATHEN'S GARDEN OF EDEN 149 

through the deep skies! For a long time their cloudy 
figures seemed to be falling. At last they stood, mighty 
shadows in the silent forest of the isles far to the west- 
ward. They were all much taller than the trees, their 
huge heads rising far above the forest height, as their 
images moved across the sky. It was the god of Hate 
who first spoke after they had stepped into the forest 
of Time. He said : ' I say, we must be very careful 
not to make these new children as big and as strong 
as we ourselves are/ For a long time the hands of the 
gods and goddesses were busy, as they toiled silently, 
mixing up the materials in the bundles they had brought 
with them. Before sunrise appeared on the sea's horizon, 
the gods had hurried back to the skies, and were watch- 
ing to see what would happen. Now the gods and 
goddesses had not long left the lonely forest when old 
Silence trembled in his cave at hearing the jabbering 
and scampering about of unusual things amongst his 
solemn trees. An extraordinary thing had happened, 
for, as the light of the sun stared down through the 
branches of the coco-palms, six newly-created men 
yawned, jumped to their new, soft, brown clay feet, 
and gazed on each other in mute astonishment. * Who 
am I ? Who are you ? ' It sounded like echoes answer- 
ing each other in a cave, as each one gabbled forth, ' Who 
am I ? Who are you ? ' For a long time they babbled 
thus. Then they all stepped forward and said to each 
other : * Let us all be happy, and care not at all who we 
may be.' 

" Saying this, they rubbed noses and became ma 
pataro (good friends). Now, just behind the bamboos 
and mangroves, not a spear's throw from where they 
were gabbling and rubbing noses, stood six newly-created 
maidens. These maidens also gazed at each other in 
astonishment and cried out : ' Who are we ? Who are 



150 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

we?' Then in some fright embraced, much the same 
as the men had done, and said : ' What matters it who 
we are, so long as we are really here ? ' and then they ran 
down to the seashore. 

'•' The sun had risen and set thrice when the maids 
danced on the shore, all singing some song which they 
had learnt from the soft murmurings of a seashell. 
Each had clad her form in a small lava-lava that was 
made of seaweed and fastened by threaded grass about 
the loins. Standing on the big lumps of red coral, they 
all dived into the ocean, to come forth laughing, as the 
sea-water fell glistening from their tresses that half hid 
their soft feet. * Oh, how lovely this world really is!' 
they said, as they lifted seashells to their ears, and, sing- 
ing again, dived headlong into the ocean. It so happened 
that the six newly-created men had made up their minds 
to go down and bathe in the cool sea-water; and, as 
they gazed through the belt of mangroves, they sud- 
denly gave a cry of astonishment. One said : * Did ever 
one see such figures ? ' Another, swallowing the lump 
that came to his throat, said : * 'Tis more wonderful 
than finding ourselves in this lonely forest to see such 
divine figures.' Then yet another cried : ' They must 
have come to us out of the night and the starlight by 
way of the Dawn ! ' Then, half in fright, they crept 
down towards the shore so that they might see the maids 
the plainer. * Vanaka ! Vanaka ! ' they cried, losing their 
heads through seeing all that they did see. Being foolish, 
as men have always been, they rushed forth from the 
shadows of the mangroves, in haste to embrace the 
maids. The maidens, looking up in wonder at hearing 
other voices, all screamed out in astonishment : ' Oh, 
look, such figures! — why, surely, more lovely than we 
are ! ' Then, seeing that the figures were rushing down 
the shores towards them, they huddled in fright together, 



HEATHEN'S GARDEN OF EDEN 151 

then, hastily lifting their loosened tresses that dangled 
down to their feet, they ran off towards the forest of 
breadfruit trees. One, who possessed a figure like a god- 
dess, lagged behind the others as they raced up the shore, 
for so long was her hair that it became entangled in her 
swifdy moving feet. Suddenly she fell down on the 
glistening sand. The six pursuing newly-created men 
shouted with joy on observong the maiden's distress. 
He who ran first was a handsome youth. In a moment 
he had reached the side of the fallen maid, who, strug- 
gling to regain her feet, glanced despairingly over her 
shoulder up into the eyes of him who leaned over her. 
The maid half turned her form whilst she still lay in a 
reclining position. So exquisite was the sight to him who 
had captured her that he nearly swooned, and so it hap- 
pened that, ere the others came up, the maid had once 
more regained her feet and had sped off into the forests. 
Hiding amongst the trees and flowers, the girls hastily 
plucked hibiscus blossoms and palm-leaves. The flowers 
they swiftly placed in their hair, and, hurriedly thread- 
ing the leaves with grass, they wrapped them about their 
loins. * Was it not foolish to run away from such 
figures?* said a tall maiden, who had soft, warm eyes 
like unto stars in a pool. * It was ! It was ! ' they cried 
together, as they leaned over the lagoon and gazed side- 
ways on their images, swerving slightly that they might 
discover why they were so fascinating. Seeing the men 
no more, they all sat down on the edge of the lagoon and 
wept bitterly. 

" Next day they searched and searched the forest 
till at last they found the men; and, lo! the men fell 
down on their knees before them, and the maids blushed 
exceedingly, their eyes sparkling with much joy. Ere 
the moon had faded to the size of a bird's underwing, 
the maidens were full of jealousy, grief, and sorrow, for 



152 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

they were each in love with the very one who loved 
another. When the gods of the shadowland (who were, 
of course, aware of all that had happened) heard the 
moans and wailing lamentations of the men and women 
whom they had created, they said : * What shall we do 
now? We have made children of the forest, and lo, 
have mixed them up the wrong way ! * 

" The goddess of Love gazed sorrowfully across the 
stars, and said : ' I must see what can be done for them, 
for now that we have made them they are our 
children/ 

'' Then all the gods and goddesses stamped their feet 
in grief, and, crying out as with one voice, said : * What 
shall we do now that we have made the first children of 
the forest wrong? ' 

" The goddesses of Love and Passion replied : * We 
must now give unto them little children of their own; 
then they will throw the blame of their sorrows on 
themselves instead of on us who made them.' 

" Then the goddess of Love continued : * Come on ! 
Come on ! ' and at once started to move towards the 
mountains of Mburoto, and all the gods sadly followed 
her. And when they stood beneath the mighty tree that 
threw branches of night across all the skies and blos- 
somed the bright-fingered stars, she said : * Stay ! It 
is here that we must gather the materials for the children 
of the children of this new world which we have made.* 
Saying this, she stooped and gathered little bits of star- 
light. And the gods and goddesses, who followed close 
behind her, said : * What's that for ? ' 

That's for the little ones^ eyes,' answered the god- 
dess of Love. Then she gathered some tiny red flowers 
that were always murmuring music to the soft winds on 
the mountain side. 

" * What's that for? ' murmured all the gods. 



HEATHEN'S GARDEN OF EDEN 153 

" * Why, that's to make the children's tiny mouths 
with.' 

" Then the goddess looked up and gave a soft whistle; 
and down from the beautiful palm trees of Mburoto 
came fluttering to her feet small, black-breasted 
birds. 

" ' Lift your heads up, O little birds ! ' she said, as they 
all sang to her. Then, as they still whistled and whistled, 
she stooped down and with her forefinger tenderly 
brushed the dark down from each breast. 

"'What's that stuff for?' growled the old Thangi- 
Thangi, the god of Hate and Sin. 

" ' Why, that is for the hair on their tiny heads.' 

" Then the goddess said : * Come on ! Come on ! ' and 
led the way to the edge of the mighty threshold of Atua 
(Elysium). 

'* Then she threw out a long fishing-net, and it fell 
away down the skies. As she pulled it up very gently, 
it was full of old sunsets and old broken moons. 

" * What's that stuff for ? ' murmured the gods, as the 
hills around were lit up with a sad, beautiful light. 

" * Why, that is to make their little hearts with ; I 
would have them love and worship us, these children 
that we have made, so that when they die, their spirits 
will come back again to shadowland.* 

" Then she led them across the wide halls of Mburoto, 
till they came to the lagoons that were the shining mirrors 
of the gods and goddesses. 

" * O gods and goddesses of shadowland, bend for- 
ward and gaze into the deep waters so that your eyes 
will be imaged therein ! ' 

** Leaning forward, they all gazed into their own 
mirrored eyes, thinking the while deeply of all that they 
wished. The mirrored eyes of the god of Hate gleamed 
like fire; Jealousy's eyes stared and stared; and Mercy's 



154 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

eyes gazed back with tenderest beams into the eyes of 
Love and her sister, Beauty. 

"'Don't move!' said the goddess, as slhe swiftly 
threw her magic fishing-net into the jagoon, and caught 
the shining, mirrored eyelight of the gods and goddesses. 
Picking it out of the net very tenderly with her fingers, 
she placed the gleaming lumps of mystical light into her 
wonderful bundle. 

"*Is that all?' thundered Poluto, the Master-of -all- 
Desires, as he stamped his feet with impatience when the 
goddess stooped yet again and plucked the golden flowers 
that danced in laughter at her feet. 

" * Is that all ? ' he thundered yet again, as she put the 
flowers in the bundle, and then fastened her robe of the 
western winds about her tall, glorious form ! 

" ' Alas ! it is not enough,' she responded, as she gazed 
tenderly into the eyes of impatient Desire, and made 
great pretence to hasten. For well she knew that he 
wanted nothing more than that ! 

" Then, in single file, the gods and goddesses tramped 
back the way they had come, and their tall shadows 
moved along the mighty walls of the moonlit mountains. 

• ••••• • 

" Next night, while the moonbeams were shining over 
the small grass-huts that the poor mortals had made, so 
that they could sleep, a shadow passed across the whole 
of the sky. It was the goddess of Love. She had ar- 
rived down in the depths of the forest wherein dwelt 
the sad, newly-created mortals. She was so tall that 
she was obliged to use magic and so make herself small. 
When she had shrunken up till she was only about four 
times as big as a mortal, she could walk with ease be- 
neath the tall forest trees. Taking a lump of red clay 
out of the earth, she strode deeper into the forest glooms. 
Standing beneath a giant breadfruit tree, she made a 



HEATHEN'S GARDEN OF EDEN 155 

little fire out of the old moonlights and dead forest twigs. 
Often and often she blew its little flame. Then, at last, 
it burnt steadily with a blue light. 

" Then she started to make tiny figures out of the red 
clay! Opening her bundle, she carefully took out bits 
of old sunsets and starlight. For a long time she was 
very busy, toiling and toiling with her fingers, as she 
moulded Httle arms, legs, and small feet. When she 
had completed her task and had set the little figures 
all upright in a row, she very tenderly put small pinches 
of sunset and starlight into the little holes she had made 
beneath their brows. Then she whispered, and it 
sounded as though a wind went moaning through the 
forest trees, and lo! the small figures all looked up at 
her, for their eyes were made. Then she said once 
again: * Now, little forest children, gaze upon me.' 
Then all the eyes of the small clay figures turned and 
gazed on her ! ' Now put out your hands, and stamp, 
so, with your feet.' At once the little marionettes 
obeyed, stamped their feet and put forth their arms. 
When the goddess had gazed approvingly at her own 
handiwork, she looked round the silent forest, and said : 
* Come, my little ones, follow me.' Then she strode 
across the forest. And the tiny clay figures, looking 
round with curiosity, followed her, half frightened, as 
they kept close to the big ankles of the goddess who had 
made them. Their little eyes shone like tiny constella- 
tions of wandering stars, as they followed their creator 
through the depth of those forest glooms. 

" At dawn, when the mortals awoke from sleep, sun- 
rise was streaming through the grass roofs of their huts. 
As they all jumped up and gazed with astonishment at 
the sight they saw, the maidens, who had slept not far 
away, cried out: ' Oh, how beautiful, to be sure! ' For, 



156 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

lo! — a flock of pretty fantoes (children) were peeping 
into their wondering eyes, laughing and clapping their 
tiny hands as they cried out: 'Oh, we are your chil- 
dren; the gods and goddesses of Mbau have sent us to 
look after you ! ' 

" After that the people multiplied on the island, till 
there were so many that some were obliged to go forth 
and dwell on other isles of the South Seas. And they 
were all happy for a long, long time, for they did not 
have time hanging on their hands, so they were not 
jealous, nor did they quarrel overmuch/' 

. • • • • • • 

*' Tafola, me slo ! " cried the children, as Tangalora 
finished his story. 

Thereupon the old scribe hastened round with his 
coco-nut-shell goblet to make the usual collection. The 
children immediately threw in the coins which their 
mothers had given them, so that they might pay on a fair 
royalty basis for the wonders which the tattooed Homer 
of their isles had told them. I flung in two bits of silver; 
and, considering all that I had heard, it was cheap at the 
price. Then the children, giving a musical halloo that 
echoed through that small Olympus, scrambled out of 
the cavern and disappeared in the forest. 

Tangalora entertained me right royally that night, not 
only by relating a lot of the fascinating storied history 
of heathenland, but because of his thoughtfulness : he 
slyly pulled a piece of sacking from an old barrel, and 
brought forth twelve bottles of sparkling Bass's ale! 
Squatting there, on Tangalora's best fibre mat, things 
took on quite a rosy look as I listened whilst the summer 
night grew old. Then I bade my host good-night and 
went outside in the open to rest. There's a good deal 
of mythology in Bass's ale : I know that much. When 
I had made my bed beneath the palms and carefully 



HEATHEN'S GARDEN OF EDEN 157 

placed my quilt of moss over my tired frame, I distinctly 
saw the moon cheerfully wave a pale hand over the 
highest pinnacle of Vae's mountain range. It did not 
seem strange that the midnight moon should laugh, and, 
sneezing, send a tiny spiral of mist across the clear sky. 
All was as it should be when a magnificent procession 
of mighty gods and goddesses from Poluto marched 
across my bedroom floor, and disappeared in the adjacent 
glooms ere I closed my eyes in sleep. 

Referring to my diary and the scraps which I wrote 
down in those old days, I find the notes considerably 
mixed up, parts quite obliterated through my sea-chest 
getting washed about on sailing-ships. Many of the 
pages are missing. But my memory is good, and I can 
easily fill in the interminable gaps. Indeed, the best 
part of this book is being written within the sounds of 
the winds in the palms. The dark, sombre green of 
the tropic landscape stretches for miles and miles. 
There lies the expanse of the sapphire-hued ocean, end- 
ing far away in the pale saffron fires of the skyline's sun- 
set, as, in my imagination, I softly dip my pen into the 
magic foams that sparkle on the coral-dust sands at my 
feet and sigh with the coco-palms overhead. 

I see by my notes that I have already recorded in 
my previous books ^ many of the incidents connected 
with my visit to Samoa at this period. And, having 
also previously related much that befell me on my first 
voyage to Nuka Hiva and Hiva oa, I have no alterna- 
tive but to revert to the incidents of a very interesting 
experience which came to me after I had " jumped ship " 
in Fiji. And this I will do in the next chapter. 

^A Vagabond's Odyssey; Wine-Dark Seas and Tropic Skies; 
Sailor and Beachcomber. 



CHAPTER VIII. IN OLD FIJI 

A Heathen Monastery — A scene of Primitive Heathenism 
— My unsolicited Professional Engagement — I imbibe 
Kava — I am made " Taboo " — Things that I may not 
Confess — My escape — Fanga Loma — A Native Village — 
The Enchantress of the Forest — Temptation — In Suva 
again. 

I RECALL that, though my profession has never bur- 
dened me with wealth till it seemed an encum- 
brance, my violin has enabled me to delve without harm 
into the most secretive, dangerous heathen societies and 
sacred festivals. Where a white man would have been, 
in the ordinary way, clubbed, or doped with a mixture 
of kava and South Sea strychnine for intruding at a 
secret sacred festival, I have been received with open 
arms. It seems incredible, when I think of the magnifi- 
cent receptions I have had through being able to play 
my old Sunday-school hymns on a fiddle before ex-can- 
nibal chiefs. 

I was in Suva, Fiji, when I managed to wheedle my 
way into a heathen monastery that was the one surviving 
temple of another age. This sacred hell was situated 
in a picturesque spot up in the Kai Tholos mountains. 
These Kai Tholos tribes were a fierce mountain people 
who, up till that date, had successfully resisted the ad- 
vances of the British missionaries. Few of them were 
still living, but those few most certainly did their best 
to make up for the iniquities of the missing when they 
met in their temple cavern four miles west of Mandaua, 
not far from the Rewa River. The aforesaid river 

158 



IN OLD FIJI 159 

ran through an isolated district in those days. Where 
now the new sugar and coffee plantations are, there 
was nothing more than a few taro and pineapple patches 
that supplied the scattered villages with work and 
food. 

How I got to know the whereabouts of the aforesaid 
monastery matters little. I will simply say that an elder 
chief, named Kambo, secured me uninterrupted admis- 
sion into the cavern-chamber where the old unconverted 
Kai Tholos assembled for religious purposes. 

Only a poet of superb descriptive ability could ade- 
quately describe that cavern's interior and its romantic 
surroundings. All I am able to say of the local scenery 
is, that the mountains seemed to abet, to watch over 
those wild Kai Tholos and their secret meetings, for ever 
guarding the cavern's entrance with their rugged hol- 
lows and pinnacles that were clad with feathery palms 
and the innocent flowerage of artless Nature. It was 
like entering some wondrous Arabian Nights cave of 
enchantment to enter that volcanic chamber. 

** In there? " I said to old Kambo, as I stood hesitat- 
ing, looking across the silent gullies, watching the migrat- 
ing cockatoos fade away in the aftermath of the sunset 
ere I made up my mind to enter. 

The large red feathers in Kambo's mop-head brushed 
against the low roof of the tunnel-way as we both en- 
tered that ominous-looking entrance. The glittering 
stalactites, hanging in festoons from the rocky alcoves, 
intensified the weird atmosphere of that gloomy place, 
as, with fiddle in my hand, I crept warily behind my 
swarthy guide. We had to stoop, almost crawl, as we 
passed along into the third corridor. Great was my sur- 
prise as I suddenly entered a spacious chamber. The 
scene before me almost dazzled my eyes, for beneath the 
hanging rows of innumerable coco-nut-oil lamps, sus- 



160 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

pended over a large platform, danced a group of dusky, 
sparkling-eyed houris! 

I stared like one in a dream as I continued to gaze 
on those whirling, semi-nude figures. A few were attired 
in diaphanous tappa robes, that seemed to be worn for 
no other purpose than for the fact that they softly 
opened out like large umbrellas and then closed down 
again. I am at a loss to know how to describe the 
dances and the various '' turns " those maids gave, as 
they sought to give the onlookers a violent, demonstra- 
tive exhibition of their charms. Some whirled, some 
somersaulted, and a few seemed to detach their limbs 
from their bodies and gently throw them, in boomerang- 
like swerves, across the stage, ere they returned and 
fixed themselves by apparent magic into their customary 
position. So it seemed to me, for I am at a loss to give 
any reasonable explanation of maidens pitching their 
legs and arms in such a way as they did, without dis- 
location, if not serious injury and strain. It is quite 
possible that they had been trained from early child- 
hood, like to our own contortionists and music-hall 
dancers, so that they might please the eyes of sinful 
old priests. 

Squatting on coco-nut-fibre mats, arranged in semi- 
circles, reposed the most hideous-looking chiefs it has 
ever been my lot to gaze upon. They were tattooed in 
grotesque style from toes to chin, their teeth reddened 
through chewing betel-nut. They were undoubtedly the 
surviving grand old roues of the pre-Christian times. To 
the indescribable capers of the sacred maids, they gave 
enthusiastic grunts and awful wheezes, and the effect 
of it all was weird enough as the sounds echoed and 
re-echoed ere they escaped from the close atmosphere 
of that subterranean chamber. 

"Woi! Woi! Vanaka!" they yelled. Then several 



IN OLD FIJI 161 

old women lifted magic sticks, with sponges on the ends, 
and wiped dribble from their ugly mouths ! 

" Kasawayo ! Kasawayo ! " the whole audience yelled, 
as a pretty Fijian princess stepped from the alcove to 
the right of the stage, did a seemingly impossible somer- 
sault, and gave a characteristic bow. The audience gazed 
on her in breathless silence. She was arrayed in a most 
picturesque style; the gleams of the hanging oil-lamps 
falling upon her made her appear like some goddess. 
About her waist was a girdle of shells and flowers that 
dangled down to her knees. But that which attracted 
me most was the manner of the timid obeisances which 
she repeatedly paid the monstrous wooden idol that an 
old priest had placed in front of her. 

" Whathi ! Whathi, Ndengi ! " the audience yelled, as 
she prostrated herself before the image. Sometimes 
she burst into blood-curdling peals of laughter and beat 
the floor with her limbs. Her skull must have been ex- 
tremely thick, for she repeatedly crashed her head on 
the floor without any apparent harm coming to it. She 
looked like some weird enchantress as she went through 
the heathen rites which were mimicked in the old ship's 
saloon mirror that was stuck up against the cavern's 
wall just beside her. Once she sprang to her feet as 
though struck by a sudden wondrous thought, then, 
lifting one arm to the rocky roof, as though it were 
some far-off sky, made a mute appeal, moving her lips 
as though in prayer. After going through many 
seemingly impossible contortions, she put forth her arms 
and, twining them that they might resemble the sinuous 
movements of a crawling serpent, chanted a weirdly 
sweet melody. And all the while this was going on, 
the whole audience chanted out, " Whathi ! Whathi ! " 
Though she performed many feats that made those 
dusky old men of the front rows lift their chins to the 



162 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

roof in sheer ecstatic joy, it was her peculiar wardrobe 
that mostly appealed to my imagination. Rising to her 
feet, she beat her bare thighs with her hands and cried 
out as though in pain, her extensive wardrobe rattling 
forth the weirdest music imaginable. Her raiment was 
adorned with the threaded bones and teeth of dead chiefs, 
old men's beards, maidens' dried fingers and toes, and, 
most sacred of all, the dried bosoms of sacrificed girls ! 
— there they hung, tied into small bouquets, bits of 
tawny skin like shrivelled parchment, grotesque but sad 
manuscripts of forgotten lovers, and what sad heart- 
beats! For it appeared that they were the breasts of 
vestal maidens who had fallen in love and so violated 
the principles of their creed. "No! Never!*' was my 
astonished ejaculation as Kambo, my friendly guide, took 
me aside and whispered much to me that must remain 
where it remains. As that old friendly chief, Kambo, 
pointed out the distinctive charms that adorned the 
dancer's heathen-raiment, I felt like making a bolt for 
it. I heartily repented of my foolish act in allowing my- 
self to be lured into such a den of heathen iniquity. But 
it was too late. 

" Woh, woil ! You play moosic, alak ! " said Kambo, 
as several fierce men approached me. In a moment all 
eyes were upon me. Something banged me on the shoul- 
der. For a moment I lost my head, and fancied that 
some mighty heathen god had suddenly dropped from 
the roof upon me. In my fright and in the one vital 
thought that came to me, I metaphorically leapt over 
my own shoulders and endeavoured to bolt down the 
tunnel away out into the night; but a nudge in the ribs 
with a war-club brought me back to my senses. I was 
immediately gripped by twelve pairs of dusky hands and 
lifted bodily by the neck and shoulders up on the pae-pae 
(stage). In a flash I realized the whole position. Obedi- 



IN OLD FIJI 163 

ently as a child I lifted my violin to my chin and com- 
menced to play. Only God remembers the melody I 
performed; I don't. A chief chuckled in a blood-curdling 
manner as I finished the strain; then he swung a war- 
club across the chamber. I instinctively dodged as the 
weapon made a boomerang-like swerve and returned to 
its owner's massive palm! Seeing that the aforesaid 
act was only an act of appreciation of my playing by 
the court jester, I was immensely relieved. 

Then I took the proffered calabash of kava from the 
hands of the head chiefess. All eyes were on me; there 
was no way out of it; I saw that I had to drink to the 
glory of the dancer's eyes. My hand trembled, I know, 
as I lifted the goblet to my lips and took a sensitive 
gulp of that wretched stuff; then I nearly vomited. It 
was surely the filthiest liquor ever imbibed by man. I 
managed to keep it down, though. It is wonderful what 
one can go through when necessity drives ! Having read 
the lives of the British martyrs, I well knew my chances, 
what might occur to me if I did not favour the rites of 
those primitive religious bigots; consequently I swal- 
lowed another pint, thinking it best to take no risks of 
giving offence. 

After that trial and dire insult to my digestive appa- 
ratus, I performed another solo, keeping excellent tempo, 
considering my position, to the mighty kicks and in- 
describable swerves of the heathen houris who were 
giving a special ran-tan selection in my honour. The 
very coco-nut-oil lamp gleams seemed to fade into a dim 
blush as I stared at the monstrous silhouette of myself 
that fiddled on the wall. I might say that the cavern 
was about fifteen feet high at the end where I stood. 
Just as the unearthly din of the audience's delighted 
exclamation was fading away, half a dozen half-caste 
girls came running into the cavern out of the tunnel 



164 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

entrance. They had coral-dyed hair, and by the fairness 
of their complexion I guessed that they were a mixture 
of Samoan and Fijian blood. I felt much relieved to see 
them appear, for they were human-looking, and so 
brought a sense of companionship into that subterranean 
den. 

The oldest member of the newcomers was attractive- 
looking. Her eyes were large and very bright. Her 
crown of hair had a marvellous glitter about it and fell 
in soft ripples down to her shoulders. In another mo- 
ment she had rushed up to me and had prostrated herself 
at my feet! A tremendous yell from the onlookers fol- 
lowed this act of the girl's. It appeared that her act 
had made me " taboo " — a sacred personage. I felt be- 
wildered over it all. An uncomfortable idea got into my 
head that I was the chosen for some heathen sacrifice! 
I know that I must have visibly paled. I even appre- 
ciated the caresses and wailing lamentations that the 
goddess-maid (for such she was) made as she poured 
strange phrases into my ears, telling me, doubtless, of 
my beauty! I do confess here that her eyes told more 
than her lips (for I could not understand the language 
in which she flattered me), and I could not fail to under- 
stand the meaning conveyed. 

Loud acclamations of approval followed all that the 
girl did. It was some little time ere I discovered how 
I was supposed to show my reciprocation of the dubious 
elevation that her choice had conferred upon me. The 
fact was that she was the head sacred-maid, and, instead 
of choosing a youth of her own race, had chosen me; 
therefore I found myself suddenly elevated to priest- 
hood. The order of priesthood was not so bad, but 
I discovered that I was supposed to embrace and kiss 
the lips of the monstrous wooden idol that stood on the 
pae-pae in front of me. Its big, wooden, grinning, one- 



IN OLD FIJI 165 

toothed mouth and goggling glass eyes seemed to say 
in some malevolent voice of silence : " Come on, thou 
dog of a Christian, kiss this heathenish mouth, bow the 
knee to me, thou destroyer of heathen creeds and mighty 
wooden images ! " 

I felt helpless. I gazed in despair on the front rows 
of that grim, dusky-hued audience of mop-headed men! 
They had thrust their chins and clubs forward on seeing 
my obvious hesitation to worship that wooden thing. 
An ominous silence dwelt over all. Two fierce old hags 
put forth their scraggy hands and made as though to 
clutch at me, but, warned by a look from the goddess- 
maid who had brought me to that pass, they lifted their 
chins and spat at me! And still I hesitated. I would 
die sooner than kneel before that grinning wooden deity. 
By now the audience was loudly shouting, their head- 
dress of big red feathers violently shaking, and still I 
pretended not to understand what they wished me to do. 
But it was hopeless, for they kept shouting and pointing 
to the maid and then at the idol. There stood that wooden 
thing, mocking me with its hideous carven grin. Not 
even though it meant death for me, would I violate my 
inherent dignity by embracing that monstrous image. 

** Woi ! Woi ! '' I cried, and, pretendng to misunder- 
stand the whole business, I leapt forward and embraced 
the maid. 

Those old chiefs opened their mouths in astonishment. 
That much I noticed as I instinctively turned my head 
to see the effect of my act. The very tattoo engraving 
that adorned the faces of the aged priests had wrinkled 
up into distorted bunches. In another moment each 
look of rage and horror had resolved into a grim grimace 
— they were all grinning. I was saved! The Fijian 
race was endowed with humour! No words of mine 
can adequately describe all I felt at that moment. 



166 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

My relief was intense. I knew that, had those priests 
been as humourless as are British disciples in their creeds, 
I had been done for. God knows, my head, that now 
recalls those old days, would have decorated a Fijian's 
girdle, or would be a pinch of dust beneath the South 
Sea palms, or possibly have been discovered ornamenting 
a native hut, and by now be on show, exhibited in some 
British anthropological museum, as a fine specimen of 
the skull of primitive man. 

As the maid continued to rub my face with her soft 
nose (the customary salutation of the Fijians), I felt 
much relieved. 

" Awaie, le oa taki ! " she murmured. 

Then, in response to the wish of that subterranean 
audience, I placed my violin to my chin and commenced 
to play a weird chant to her eyes. It had to be done, 
I knew. Ah, how I played! My instrument wailed out 
Wagner's " Swan Song," then I finished up with a Band 
of Hope hymn. And all the while the maid fawned on 
me like a cat, looked into my eyes, stroked my hand 
that swayed the violin bow, and gazed in wonder on the 
other that travelled up and down the fingerboard of 
my instrument. 

Suddenly I seemed to be whirled away on the roar 
and thunder of some invisible Niagara Falls. Forked 
lightning seemed to flicker down the corridors of my 
brain. I knew that it was the fumes of that cursed 
kava beginning to work on the emotional temperament! 
The world seemed to wobble on its orbit. I made a 
creditable effort, I am sure, to steady myself; then I 
seemed to have leapt out of myself — I had clutched the 
maid, and in some awful delirium of ecstasy was whirling 
with her in the heathenish mekee-dance! 

I may not tell all that occurred at that enforced pro- 
fessional engagement, no, not till Time has finished its 



IN OLD FIJI 167 

onward flight and the blind sun stares on the melancholy 
past. One thing I can confess to, and that is, I had 
made up my mind to escape at the first opportunity. 
Opposite me was the tunnel-way wherethrough I had 
entered. Often, as the clamouring audience rose to 
encore the dancers, their shadows fell on me and across 
the cavern walls ; but my chance seemed never to arrive. 
Still I played on and watched, and still the maid whom 
I had embraced sang a weird melody of wailful sweetness 
into my ears. 

Once more I was compelled to imbibe the " sacred '* 
potion of kava, and once more my digestive apparatus 
groaned within me. 

I thought I must surely be dreaming when all the 
fierce, watching eyes of the priests, who stared at the 
goddess-maid and myself, suddenly dropped from their 
sockets and twinkled on the cavern's floor ! This strange 
effect was caused, not only through some obliquity of 
my kava-stricken vision, but also because a puff of wind 
suddenly blew down the tunnel-way's entrance and 
swayed the rows of coco-nut-oil lamps into shadowy 
gleams. As soon as normal conditions returned, my 
senses seemed to readjust themselves. 

Suddenly the sacred personage, Kasawayo, who had 
stood aside since I had been made taboo, stepped for- 
ward and cried : " Alaka ! " (Hold !) 

This act of Kasawayo's gave me considerable relief. 
I saw that she had some great influence over the priests ; 
for they immediately ceased their hubbub and their re- 
marks, I am sure, of a debased nature. 

It appeared that Kasawayo was the religious imper- 
sonation of some great goddess of shadowland, and I 
had reason to believe that she was a jealous impersona- 
tion. Stepping on the small platform, she gave the 
maid who had made me taboo a fierce whack on the 



168 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

face! A great hullabaloo followed this ungracious act. 
The priests, chiefesses, and youths leapt from their mats 
and joined enthusiastically in the melee. My chance 
to escape had come! In a second I had dived towards 
the cavern's side. I scrambled down the tunnel-way. 
When I arrived at the spot where one was compelled 
to stoop, a great fear seized my heart, for I heard the 
sound of breathing just behind me — I knew that I was 
pursued! I cursed my ample bulk. Had I been a little 
thinner I could have squeezed through the narrow aper- 
ture easily enough. Holding my violin forward in one 
hand, so that I could clear the walls without its being 
crushed, I gave a final wriggle — I was through ! 

My delight can be imagined when I emerged into the 
bush of the surrounding gullies. Scrambling through 
the tropical growth I heard a faint shuffling noise close 
behind me. It was evident that someone else had rushed 
through the tunnel-way and was close on my track. 

" Vm done for! " I thought, as I turned round, deter- 
mined to sell my life dearly. The old barbarian that 
dwells in all men leapt into my soul. I even felt some 
fierce joy at the idea of cracking my pursuer's skull ere 
I fell. " Come on ! " I shouted, as I held a lump of 
rock over my head; then I dropped my clumsy weapon 
and smiled — the dusky goddess-maid who had made me 
taboo stood before me! 

" Come, Papalagi ! " she whispered, as she clutched 
my arm. 

Like an obedient child I raced along as she ran soft- 
footed beside me. I felt that I was running across some 
fairy-world in a dream, as I saw the maid's flying heels 
and the moonlit forest around me. 

" Runner fast ! " she said. 

And so I did. 

Arriving at the bottom of the steep incline, we pulled 



IN OLD FIJI 169 

up by the edge of a wide mountain lagoon. Feathery 
palms leaned over the silent waters. The moon, high 
in the sky right overhead, was imaged distinctly in the 
dark water at my feet, and by the mirrored orb floated 
a canoe. The clear shadow of that tiny craft was so 
distinct that it seemed to float just over the moon's image, 
the shadow being more visible than the canoe itself. 

" O Papalagi, jumper! jumper! " said the maid in an 
appealing voice. 

I did not hesitate, but I leaned forward and leapt — 
splash! — I had jumped into the shadow craft and down 
into the depths of the imaged moon. The maid, as I 
floundered about in the deep water, clutched my hair, 
and so enabled me to scramble up on the lagoon's edge. 

" Silly Papalagi ! " she murmured ; then we heard the 
wild calls of our pursuers coming from somewhere up 
in the mountains. In a moment I had leapt again, this 
time landing safely in the real article. The way that 
girl paddled the canoe is something that pleases my 
memory to this day. She looked like some pretty en- 
chantress as she sat there in front of me, her paddle 
cutting a line of fire as she dipped softly into the radiance 
of the moon's white flame. So clear were those huddled 
waters from the distant mountains, that we could see 
ourselves sitting in the canoe as it sped across the dark 
depths. I felt a thrill of joy as we gently beached on the 
opposite shore. The girl leapt softly from the canoe; 
as for me, I upset the fragile craft and then scrambled 
knee-deep ashore. My little comrade was evidently taking 
no risks that night. 

*^ Comer on ! " she said. 

It took me all my time to keep up with her as she 
raced down into the hollows and sped up the steep in- 
clines. There seemed no ending to that forest, ere we 
rushed out from the shades of the breadfruits and I 



170 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

found myself in a large, cleared space that fronted a 
native village ! 

Even then I did not feel easy in my mind. But I was 
relieved when the girl told me that it was her own village. 
The hushed, huddled, bee-hive-shaped dens in the shade 
of the palms, through which the saluting moonlight fell, 
made a picturesque scene. 

" Is it safe? " I said, as I stared at the rows of huts. 

The little goddess-maid answered me by turning a 
somersault on the rara (village green) right in front of 
my eyes. 

Then Fanga Loma, for that turned out to be her name, 
ran across the green patch and entered one of the larger 
huts. 

'' Supposing she's a traitor ?'* 1 thought, as the girl 
disappeared. 

But she was straight enough. In a few moments I 
heard sleepy mutterings, and then a loud jabbering com- 
menced. In a few moments Fanga Loma's parents, for 
such they were, had hastily arrayed themselves in their 
fig-leaves, so to speak, and had run out of the hut to see 
and welcome me! For a considerable time Fanga con- 
tinued to jabber in her own tongue to her people. I 
could only guess the lies she was telling them as she 
pointed excitedly to me and then gabbled again. She was 
a clever little devil, for the pleased expression on the 
faces of her aged parents was a treat to see. I sup- 
pose she had to invent some kind of a tale. The village 
was a Christianized one, and had Fanga told the truth 
her parents would probably have been greatly incensed 
at finding that she visited the heathen Kai Tholos of 
the mountains. Though it was midnight, a festival 
was immediately given in my honour. From the in- 
numerable grunts of pleasure and the attention which was 
lavished upon me, I gathered that I was supposed to have 



IN OLD FIJI 171 

rescued Fanga Loma from some dire danger. As for 
Fanga, she gave me many fascinating glances of confi- 
dence, and seemed quite assured that I was not the kind 
to go back on her and tell the truth ! She had evidently 
met white men before, and so knew what holy beggars 
they were! 

Sleepy youths and women dodged about as they lit 
up the hanging coco-nut-oil lamps that are to be seen 
in all native villages. In a few moments they were all 
alight, and the breadfruit and banyan boughs looked like 
the branches of some fairy scene. I knew what was 
expected of me, and so I took up my position beneath 
the centre palm tree and, placing my violin to my chin, 
commenced to play. Possibly I looked like some 
wondrous heathen god pulling invisible strings — strings 
that guided the wonderful capers of those semi-heathen 
people. Up and down they jumped, the whole popula- 
tion bobbing like puppets as I fiddled away! The little 
kiddies awoke from their sleeping-mats and rushed out 
of the huts to see the fun. To see a white man playing 
a strange instrument under a palm by moonlight was 
something that made the kids stare in wonder. They 
looked like dusky cherubs as they crept on all-fours 
among the leafy banyan groves, and peered at me 
between the fern and palm leaves in fright. Such 
demon-bright eyes they had! And when I whipped out 
the flute-like harmonies of Paganini's " Witches* 
Dance," they all gave a shriek of terror, let the big palm 
leaf drop, and vanished, as it were, into shadowland! 

After playing for a considerable time, I stopped, and 
intimated to the chiefs that I wished to get away. At 
first they begged me to stay; but, seeing that I was 
determined, they loaded me with coco-nut milk. One 
old woman took a large bone hair-comb from her mop and 
presented it to me. After a little discussion they agreed 



172 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

to let Fanga Loma accompany me a little way on the 
route. I was glad of this gracious act, for I felt a 
bit nervous that night. And so off Fanga Loma and I 
went. I heard the death-owl screaming as we entered 
the deep shadows of the forest. Fanga began to sing 
a pretty strain as her bare feet shuffled a kind of tempo 
to her melody while she walked beside me. I felt like 
a heathen as the moonlight streamed through the giant 
trees and that strange girl stared up into my eyes. Those 
eyes of hers were unearthly bright, and seemed to express 
the wild, poetic mystery of her race. She cast a weird 
atmosphere over everything by her eerie presence. The 
trees around me, the moonlight on the tropic flowers, the 
stealing streams, and the stars, seemed charged with the 
magical light of Fanga Loma's eyes! I've often 
fancied Fve felt the mystery of the great Unseen that 
dwells about us as we move through this mortal existence, 
and such a feeling of the proximity of the unknown and 
** worlds not realized " came to me that night. That 
eerie, star-eyed girl seemed some enchantress, some dusky 
Christabel haunting my footsteps as I softly trod the 
mossy path of that moonlit forest. It was a bewitching 
melody that she sang as she softly swayed in an elfin- 
like manner beside me. 

" For Heaven's sake don't sing that ! " I whispered, 
as I looked into her face. 

And did she stop? — not she! She simply sang on all 
the more, then looked up into my eyes. I trembled; a 
fierce light shone in those unearthly bright orbs. 

''Why you leaver go my arm?" she wailed; then 
she said softly: " Papalagi, must you go and leaver 
Fanga Loma for ever ? " 

We were standing by the cross-road of the forest as 
she said that. The girl's manner and the eerie gaze of 
her eyes carried me out of myself back into some other 



IN OLD FIJI 173 

age. I realized my weakness, and turned away from 
those shining, appeaUng eyes. I kissed the hand she 
offered, and gazed as though in deep thought on the 
floor of the silent forest. 

** Fanga, I must go back to Suva, but I will return 
some day," I whispered, as I looked in fright on the 
giant trees, wondering if they could hear! 

Then the girl fell on her knees, lifted her hands to the 
forest height, and cried out in this wise : 

" Is not the world of love, the magic of the stars, 
flowers, and deep waters and touch of a maiden's lips 
enough for such as you? Are not these trees that sigh 
over us our dear, great friends, and yours too, O white 
Papalagi ? Who is this great white god that seems 
sweeter to you than the loving arms of a maid? Hear 
me, I am daughter of great chief. The village will be 
your own, chiefs will fawn at your feet and cast nicer 
fruits and shells at you! " 

For a moment I marvelled at the maid's sudden out- 
burst. I wondered if she had been reading some South 
Sea novel, so strangely romantic did it all seem. 

" I will come again, Loma," I murmured, as I recovered 
my senses and gazed steadily into the eyes of that wild 
girl of the forest. She was little more than a child; 
many acts of hers had told me that much. 

"Farewell, little goddess-maid!" I said. 

"Farewell, O Papalagi!" she whispered, then she 
gave a jump and — splash! had dived headlong into the 
lagoon by our side. 

" God, she's committed suicide! " I thought, as I made 
to leap into the dark water. I could see only a few 
ripples where she had disappeared. I put forth my hands 
to dive, then stopped, for out in the middle of the lagoon 
up came a tangled mass of hair ! It was Fanga's head. I 
saw her swimming arms and dusky shoulders twinkle in 



174 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

the moonlight. She was simply swimming across the 

lagoon, taking the nearest cut back to her native village ! 

• •••••• 

When I awoke in my Suva lodging-house next morning, 
I discovered that my violin was cracked. But for the 
scratches on my legs and the wisps of hair from dead 
men's grey beards clinging to my blue serge suit, I 
might have concluded that the whole of my night's adven- 
tures were the outcome of a nightmare. About a week 
after my adventure in that heathen monastery and with 
Fanga Loma, I met a chief who claimed to be the son 
of King Thakombau. He was an intelligent man, and 
told me a lot about the doings of the old cannibalistic 
times. When I told him what I had experienced in the 
heathen monastery of the Kai Tholos, he gave me a hint 
as to what might have happened to me had I not made 
my escape. It was this son of Thakombau's who told me 
many interesting heathen legends. One legend in particu- 
lar struck my imagination, for it was about the old god- 
dess Kasawayo, but was so different from the impersona- 
tion I had seen in the Kai Tholos temple, that I will 
do my best to give an impression of all that I heard in 
the following chapter. 



CHAPTER IX. KASAWAYO AND THE SERPENT 

(a FIJIAN LEGEND FOR YOUNG AND OLD CHILDREN) 

A Goddess in the Garb of Mortality — A Garden of Eden 
— Temptation — Kasawayo and Kora the Mortal — The 
Battle — Flight to Shadowland. 

AGES ago a goddess of shadowland sickened of the 
-^^ sacred halls of the passionless gods. One day a 
great desire to be a mortal entered her heart, for she 
had once been a mortal herself and had had the desires 
of mortality, but knew it not. She was sitting by her 
cavern door, gazing across the starlit singing seas of 
paradise, when she made up her mind to desert shadow- 
land. 

" My heart is lonely enough ; I long for warm lips 
that will kiss my face and eyes and give unto my soul 
those impassioned tendernesses that I so strangely re- 
member in my dreams," she cried, as she listened to the 
moaning of the waves and sighing forest trees of shad- 
owland. *' Why, why should I sit here weeping, listen- 
ing, for thousands of moons, and none to touch my lips? '* 
So thought the goddess as she put her fingers up and 
softly twirled the skeins of tangled sunset that adorned 
her hair. Having made up her mind, she at once went 
off and consulted the oracles (who were the great dead 
chiefs of Fiji). Listening eagerly to them, she at once 
followed their advice, and so started to travel across the 
wonderful mountains of Mbula. It was in the great 
mountains of Mbula where she could kneel at the altar 
and feet of the great god Ndengi, who was the Supreme- 

175 



176 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

Giver of shadowland. After travelling a long way, 
Kasawayo (for that was the goddess's name) came to 
the entrance of a cavern in the mountain's side. As she 
approached the entrance, a beautiful light streamed out 
upon her. She gazed round, and heard the tramp of 
the vassal gods who were passing across the outer plains. 
They were going off, she knew, to hang the stars and 
moons and fleecy clouds up in the sky. 

On seeing the mighty heathen gods travelling along 
by the light of their own eyes — eyes that stared like 
beautiful moons across the plains — Kasawayo knew she 
had arrived at the wonderful halls wherein dwelt Ndengi. 
Prostrating herself before the sentinel gods (for such 
they were who stood for ever watching by the great 
hollow of the doorway where she stood), she said: *' I 
am Kasawayo, the goddess of half-remembered dreams, 
and it is my wish to enter the mighty halls of Mbula." 

The taller sentinel, who stood as high as a mountain, 
and who was busy tattooing the sky with stars, dropped 
his mighty calabash that was full of the dead hopes of 
human dreams, and said : 

" Vanaka ! O Le Su Kasawayo." 

In another moment Kasawayo had entered the door- 
way of the underworld, and was travelling along a track 
that had mighty mountains on each side. Looking up- 
ward she saw the spirits of the dead flying ahead of 
her, on the way to the wrathful Ndengi to be judged for 
their sins on the great living world. 

" Vanaka ! " she cried, waving her hand as the sorrow- 
ing souls passed right overhead. Death had reshaped 
them into beautiful bird-like things that had the faces 
of handsome youths. Kasawayo sighed as their glimmer- 
ing wings flitted beneath the stars that shone over the 
mountain peaks ; then they passed from her sight. 

Kasawayo felt very sad and weary when she at last 



KASAWAYO AND THE SERPENT 177 

arrived before the vast pae-pae (throne) whereon sat 
the great god Ndengi. Across the roof of the under- 
world shone a myriad stars, and many moons sent wist- 
ful gleams across the mysterious forest regions of Spirit- 
land. 

Kasawayo trembled as she approached the vast pae-pae. 
A stream of green light fell slantwise through the 
branches of the giant palms that leaned over the god's 
throne, sending wistful gleams down on the small form 
of the ambitious goddess. As the moonbeams trickled 
over her tresses that fell in a shining cataract down to 
her bare feet, she said : 

" O great Ndengi, I have travelled far, for I wish to 
go down the skies and live on the isles of Fiji." 

Then Ndengi spoke, and his voice sounded like the 
far-off muttering of thunder in the mountains : 

** I will let you go down over the waters of the sunsets, 
but ere you go I must turn you into a bird." 

At hearing that she would be turned into a bird that 
could so easily fly to the homes of mortal men, Kasawayo 
was delighted, and at once fell on her knees before 
Ndengi and sang a prayer in this wise : 

" Oh, great Ndengi, God of Mbau, 
My heart murmurs, full of love for you; 
And the flowers and foaming rivers of shadowland 
Are singing of the splendours of Ndengi. 
The beauty of your wandering thoughts, the stars. 
Sing passionless in the hollow of your hand, 
Telling of your love for mighty things." 

Then she gazed up softly in the great god's eyes, and 
whispered in a frightened way : 

"I am a woman of half-remembered dreams. 
Where forests sigh above the stealing streams, 
And so I long to gaze in warm, wild eyes 
Of men where Passion in her sorrow sighs." 



178 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

Like a great wind was the sigh of Ndengi as Kasawayo 
ceased her sweet song. Then he said : " Arise ! '* and 
the goddess rose to her feet and stumbled on her thin 
legs, for she had been turned into a great bird! Her 
eyes were still beautiful and sparkled like unto the stars. 
Her wings were tipped with gold and striped with deep 
crimson and green, her breast was as snowy white as the 
orange blossom. Ndengi leaned against the mountains 
that were pillars of his throne, and, gazing on the trans- 
formed Kasawayo, said : 

" I have disguised you so that no mortal will dare to 
love you." 

Kasawayo, on hearing this, smiled in her heart as she 
stared in Ndengi*s great mirror, a lagoon that imaged 
him as he sat on his throne. She saw that she had a 
woman's eyes, and she knew what a woman's eyes could 
do. Then, down the mountain's paths and across the 
valleys of Mbau, the goddesses came running, for they 
had heard the echoes, and would wish Kasawayo good- 
bye ere she left shadowland. 

" Vanaka! Le tao. O Kasawayo, you look beautiful, 
though you are a bird." 

Kasawayo lifted her eyes in her vanity and saw her 
own image reflected in Ndengi's great eyes ! " He warns 
me ! " she muttered. 

Then Kasawayo spread her new wings, and without 
a moment's hesitation flew off into the starlit, silent night. 
Often her wings brushed against the soft light of the 
stars as she curved in her downward flight ere she came 
to the Fijian Isles, which she had seen in dreams and 
heard about from sinful spirits. She was well pleased 
as she fluttered over the breadfruit trees that grow in 
such abundance near Nadronga on the isle of Viti Levu. 
Sitting on the topmost bough of a tall coco-palm, she 
gazed down, and stared curiously on a flock of Fijian 



KASAWAYO AND THE SERPENT 179 

children who were romping in the drala-weed and deep 
fern of the forest floor. The sight of those children 
awakened strange old memories in her mind. Looking 
down in a sidelong look, as a bird must look, she said : 

" Children of the forest, I am the goddess Kasawayo, 
and have come from shadowland to watch over you all ! " 

The children gazed in surprise as they looked up and 
saw a wonderful bird with a human face speaking to 
them from the topmost bough of the coco-nut palm. 
Then they all shouted back to the goddess : 

" Are you Kasawayo, she of whom the great chiefs of 
our village so often talk and pray about? " 

Then a fierce-looking boy looked up and said : 

" YouVe caused a lot of sorrow in our hut, you have. 
Why didn't you hear my mother's prayers? " 

But Kasawayo only flapped her wings, and gazed down 
on the children in sorrow. At this moment a serpent 
crawled out of the thick bamboo bush hard by the swampy 
lagoon. It had a long, crimson-hued neck that soared 
upwards and fell as it crawled, like the neck of a lika-bird 
(swan). On seeing the children it at once stood erect 
on its twisted tail, and hissed forth: 

" Children, what are you talking to up in that tree ? " 

** We are talking to a bird, O god of the shore caves," 
said the children, as they all pointed up into the coco- 
palm. 

The serpent, who was a disguised god, looked curiously 
up into the coco-palm, and then said in a soft, insinuating 
way: 

"Why, Kasawayo !— it's you!" Then it added: 
"Why, I never thought to see you down here after all 
these thousands of years! " 

" Yes, it's I, right enough ; Ndengi let me come down 
and see you all for a while." 

" Did he ? " responded the serpent. 



180 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

Kasawayo felt a bit worried as she looked sideways 
down at the serpent. Then, feeling it would be best to 
be quite pleasant, she said as she gave a coquettish 
glance : 

" I am pleased to see you again, but what I really 
wish to see is a handsome Fijian youth who will love me 
and return with me to the halls of Mbau." 

''You do, do you?" thought the serpent-god as it 
looked up at Kasawayo, a crafty, envious gleam in its 
big green eyes. 

Kasawayo, who now had a woman's instincts, trembled 
slightly as she noticed that look. Then she said : 

" I know you'll help me to find a handsome, passionate 
mortal, won't you ? " 

The serpent-god swelled to double his size, and, looking 
up at Kasawayo, thought to himself : 

" Why, I like the look of you myself, and I can be a 
passionate lover if I like." 

Being a wary serpent-god, he took care that Kasawayo 
should have no inkling of his thoughts. Then he un- 
rolled his spotted body so that he might reveal his vivid 
colours to the best advantage. Having shown his beauty, 
he said : 

** Kasawayo, I will do my best to find you a handsome 
lover." 

*' Vanaka ! O serpent-god," quoth Kasawayo, as she 
spread her wings that the serpent might see that she was 
as well-coloured as he was. In another moment she had 
bravely fluttered down to the forest floor. 

"Alow! Woi!" cried the wondering children, as 
Kasawayo stood beside the hot-eyed serpent. 

** Run away, children ! " said the artful serpent-god. 

In a moment the children had all vanished, were run- 
ning home to the village to tell their parents all they 
had seen. 



KASAWAYO AND THE SERPENT 181 

Turning to Kasawayo, the serpent-god said in his 
gentlest voice : 

" Come on ! " 

And so Kasawayo with a trembhng heart went away 
through the forest, walking by the side of the crawling 
serpent-god whose heart was bitter indeed to think he 
was not disguised by the fates as a handsome youth 
instead of an ugly serpent- thing. 

" Sing to me," said the god, as he glided by Kasawayo's 
side. 

Kasawayo at once lifted her half-bird, half-human 
face, and sang. 

And, while the serpent-god was flattering Kasawayo 
and giving artful hints, a handsome native youth sud- 
denly emerged from the forest shadows and stood before 
them. 

" A youth — the very one ! " exclaimed the goddess. 

On hearing Kasawayo's unguarded exclamation, the 
god got into a great rage and cursed himself for asking 
the goddess to sing. For it was the sweet voice of the 
goddess that had attracted the handsome youth as he 
lay dreaming under the coco-palms. 

Now this youth's name was Kora, and Kora was a 
passionate youth. The serpent-god noticed the look of 
admiration that leapt into the youth's e3^es as he stood 
before them. 

" I must get rid of him," thought the god, as he looked 
up into Kora's face and said in a very deceitful 
voice : 

" Kora, how very pleased I really am to see you at 
this moment. What do you think of this beautiful bird 
that is here by my side? " 

Saying this, the serpent, without waiting to hear Kora's 
opinion, took hold of the bird's wing and introduced her 
to Kora. 



182 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

As Kasawayo^s eyes sparkled with delight and the 
handsome youth bowed and kissed her tenderly on the 
face, the jealous serpent said quickly : 

" See, Kora, 'tis but a bird, and for all its beauty is 
only fit for flying/' 

But, nevertheless, the kiss that Kora gave the bird 
was so unduly prolonged, and was so passionate, that 
the disguised goddess hung her head and blushed up to 
the soft feathers that adorned her brow! The jealous 
serpent perceiving this, and seeing that Kora was already 
in love with Kasawayo, looked up and said : 

" Go away, Kora ; Kasawayo is my guest. To-night 
she goes back again to shadowland, so I have little time 
with her." 

" Ho ! ho ! " said Kora; " so you want her all for your- 
self, do 3^ou? " 

Saying this, Kora stared defiantly at the serpent. 

Without any more ado, the serpent seized hold of the 
frightened Kasawa3^o and started off into the deeper 
shadows of the forest. 

In a moment Kora sprang forward, saying: 

" You shall not take her away from me ; well enough 
I can see that she loves me, and not you ! " 

Then Kora lifted his big war-club and made a desperate 
attack on the serpent. In a moment the serpent had 
lifted its hideous head and chanted forth, " Wathi, wathi, 
noko-buli ! " As the sad Kora heard those words, he 
realized that the serpent was a heathen god. He knew 
well enough that he had no power to thwart the serpent's 
wishes and so save Kasawayo. 

As the serpent once more seized hold of the goddess, 
she looked over her shoulder and gazed into the eyes of 
Kora as much as to say, " O beautiful Kora, I love you. 
Yet must I go away into the forest with this terrible 
serpent-god." 



KASAWAYO AND THE SERPENT 183 

Kora hung his head for shame to think that a serpent 
had more power than he had. 

When the god came to his dweUing-cave, which was 
by the sea, he pulled Kasawayo hurriedly into the dark 
beyond the big doorway. This great cave was lit up 
by a dim light that was emitted from the eyes of the 
serpent. Dragging Kasawayo over to the far corner 
he placed the trembling goddess on a large lump of red 
coral that was carved into a chair. As she sat there, 
couched in the moonlight that crept through the door- 
way, she trembled violently, and gazed despairingly on 
the serpent. It was then that the serpent-god crawled 
to the far end of the big cavern, and, raising his head 
till it touched the crystals of the sparkling roof, said, 
" Wathi, wathi ! *' and lo, the serpent was no longer a 
serpent, but stood there before Kasawayo — a handsome 
god! 

Kasawayo said: 

" Though you are now turned into a handsome god, 
still I do not like you. You do not look as beautiful 
as the Fijian youth, Kora." 

On hearing this, the god got into a terrible rage. 
Then, quickly cooling down, he said : 

" If you will only love me, I will let you walk through 
the forest by night in your own shape, for, though 
you are beautiful, you are not as lovely as you were 
when you had a woman's form in Mbau. Now will 
you love me ? " 

For a moment Kasawayo sat couched in the moon- 
shine, thinking over what the god Buli-buli had said. 
Then she looked up into his glistening serpent-like eyes, 
and said: 

" I am in your power, so I will do my best to please 
and love you." 

Immediately the god heard Kasawayo say this, he 



184 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

said in a terrible voice that echoed through the hollow 
cavern : 

" Wathi ! wathi ! " 

Before the echoes had faded away Kasawayo stood 
shining in the moonshine. She was once more trans- 
formed back into a beautiful goddess. 

Being a heathen serpent-god, and having none of the 
passions of the mortals, Buli-buli simply gazed upon 
Kasawayo, and said : 

" Now that I have made you a goddess again, you 
must sit here in this cavern and sing to me all through 
the day and all through the night." 

And so for many days and nights Kasawayo sang 
and sang till her throat was tired. At length her heart 
began to long for the voice of Kora, and her eyes for 
one sight of his beauty. 

One evening, as the sun was setting, she said to the 
god Buli-buli, who was at that moment dozing by the 
cavern's door: 

" Oh, I am so tired of singing away in this cave ; 
though I love you, Buli-buli, still I feel that I would like 
to go out into the forest by night alone." 

For a moment the god looked at Kasawayo, growled, 
and then said: 

" If you go out into the forest alone, I shall be turned 
into a serpent again till you come back; and, were you 
to be unfaithful to me by allowing the lips of a mortal 
to touch your own, I should be doomed to remain ever 
in the shape of a serpent." 

Saying this, the god looked fiercely at Kasawayo, as 
though he would read her soul. 

Kasawayo, being a true Fijian goddess-woman, put 
her most innocent look into her bright eyes. 

Then the god continued: 

" Now, will you promise me that, if I let you go out 



KASAWAYO AND THE SERPENT 185 

into the forest alone, you will be faithful and return 
again ? '' 

'' Oh yes, I promise faithfully that I will be true to 
you and return to the cave again." Saying this, 
Kasawayo's heart beat violently with joy at the thought 
that she might meet the handsome Kora once more. 

Buli-buli looked up into her face for a long while, 
then said: 

" The sun has dipped his head into the moani aili 
(ocean) ; the stars are marching across the plains of 
shadowland ; go, Kasawayo, into the forest alone ! " 

Kasawayo jumped to her feet, delight shining in her 
dark eyes. As she passed out of the cavern, she looked 
over her shoulder to bid farewell to the god, but she 
only saw a huge serpent crawling on its spotted belly 
across the floor of the cave. 

Directly she arrived outside the cavern she ran away 
at full speed into the moonlit forest. She was indeed 
beautiful to look upon. Her hair hung in thick, curling 
tresses down to her smooth brown back, and often got 
entangled in her soft feet as she ran. A girdle of sweet- 
scented flowers swathed her loins. As she ran along, 
the forest winds put out their spirit fingers, lifted her 
masses of hair tenderly, and looked at her beautiful 
form; and the moo-moo flowers scented her body as 
she brushed past. Coming to the hollows, where grew 
the taro and the fruits of the mortals, she turned aside 
and went inland. For she heard the laughter of the 
little mortal-children in the villages and the sounds of 
drums beating. Her heart fluttered as she heard those 
mortal noises, and knew that the forest high chiefs were 
worshipping their Meke idols beneath the big crimson 
blossoms of the ndrala-trees. 

*'Tani! Vanaka! O Le saka!" were the words that 
came to her ears like echoes of some far-away memory. 



186 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

A great longing came to her soul. She felt that she 
would love to go into the village that was just by and 
look upon the faces of the mortals. But she stifled the 
feeling, for had she not promised the god Buli-buli to 
keep away from them? 

She had not gone far down the little track that led 
away from the native village, when she came to a moon- 
lit space that was just by a forest lagoon. She knew not 
why it was, but her heart beat rapidly as she crept nearer 
and nearer. And no wonder, for there, sitting on a 
mossy stump of a dead breadfruit tree, with head bowed 
with grief, was Kora. 

Lifting the big palm-leaves that brushed against her 
face, Kasawayo gazed on the weeping youth with loving 
eyes. Then in her sweetest accents she commenced to 
sing this song : 

"Oh, love of my life, like unto the stars 
And the winds and the waving trees, 
And the singing pines by the coral bars, 
Loud with the voices of roaming seas, 
You are to me, you are to me ! " 

Kora slowly raised his head. For a moment he gazed 
like one who still thought that he dreamed. The O Le 
maun oa (nightingale) ceased to sing in the backa trees 
just overhead, so delicious was the warm-throated melody 
that Kasawayo sang. Then Kora started up to his feet. 
He realized that some beautiful goddess was singing to 
him. He knew well that no one but his lost Kasawayo 
would have so beautiful a voice. 

Still the goddess sang on. And as( she sang she 
thought of the serpent-god who had, for her sake, been 
transformed into a serpent so that she might go into 
the forest alone. 

She longed to rush forth from the bamboos and re- 



KASAWAYO AND THE SERPENT 187 

veal herself to Kora. But how could she do so when 
she had promised the serpent-god to be faithful to him? 
So she still remained hidden, and sang on. 

Kora listened to her voice with delight. Then he 
cried out: 

" Kasawayo ! I know 'tis you who sing ; come forth 
and let me see you." 

On hearing the voice of the youth calling her, so 
strong was her love that she almost rushed forward. 
For a moment she controlled the awful impulse, and 
started to sing once more, and these were the words of 
her song : 

" Oh, Kora, my beloved, your eyes are like the moo-moo flowers ; 
Your form is as straight as a young coco-palm. 
So my heart, my heart is on fire with thoughts of love; 
Yet I dare not reveal the beauty of my face to you ; 
For, oh, listen to me ! I have made a vow to the serpent-god ; 
And I must not reveal my beautiful face to your sweeter eyes. 
Oh, Kora, my heart is heavy with grief; what shall I do?" 

Then Kora also made up a song; and the words of the 
song were like unto this : 

" Oh, come to me, my Kasawayo, for my heart is full of joy. 
Vinaka ! O loved one, all praise to Mbete and the great Ndengi 

of Mbau 
To think that you love me — oh, to think that you love me ! 
And oh, Kasawayo, if two people love, who shall deny them? 
Cannot I see thy face, look into thine eyes, and love thy form, 

Kasawayo ? " 

Then Kasawayo answered in this wise : 
" If I show you my face, will you promise not to kiss 
me, or say those beautiful words of love that I would 
so love to hear you say? For, Kora, dear one, I am 
a goddess, and, though I have a heart that feels some 
of the passions of the mortals, it is sinful that I should 
love a mortal." 



188 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

Saying this, Kasawayo looked about her, and whispered 
through the silence of the bushes: 

" Hush, Kora, listen. The serpent-god may be able 
to know what I am doing, though his eyes be far away ! " 

*' O Kasawayo, I promise to do as you wish," re- 
sponded the handsome youth. 

Then Kora commenced to sing his beautiful song, as 
with complete trust Kasawayo stepped forth from the 
bamboo trees and stood before the youth in all her love- 
liness ! 

For a moment the young chief Kora placed his hands 
over his eyes. The beauty of Kasawayo was so dazzling 
that he dared not gaze upon her without wanting to 
embrace her. At length, feeling that he could with- 
stand the temptation of her sight without risk, he un- 
covered his eyes. Then the youth and the goddess gazed 
upon each other in perfect stillness as though they were 
perfect figures of cold carven stone, so entranced were 
they with the sight of each other's beauty. 

The goddess was the first to break the silence. With 
all the sweet frailness that is born of woman, she, not- 
withstanding that she was a goddess, put forth her beauti- 
ful face and said : 

" O Kora mine, let us each close our eyes, and then, 
inclining our forms one towards the other, imagine that 
we are lovers kissing." 

Kora replied: 

" O Kasawayo, I will do this that you ask of me, bGt 
still am I sad to think that the meeting of our lips is 
only to be imagined. For we mortals love to feel the 
beauty of the maiden that we love; for, though the 
imagination is always more beautiful than the reality, 
still we love the beauty and sorrow that we see more 
than the heaven that we imagine." 

Saying this, Kora sighed and closed his eyes. Bend- 



KASAWAYO AND THE SERPENT 189 

ing forward, he stretched out his hands, and then, kissing 
the air fondly with his impassioned hps, tried to imagine 
that he held the beautiful Kasawayo in his arms. 

And Kasawayo the spirit-woman? — she did likewise. 
Only for a few moments did they both stand wrapt in 
the ecstasy of their imagination. The forest winds sighed 
amorously through the branches of the ndralas, kissing 
Kasawayo's shining tresses that hung around her like a 
tent as her form inclined towards Kora. Then, lol 
the magic fingers of the winds, that were caressing 
Kasawayo's tresses, accidentally brushed them against 
the bare knees of the inclining, impassioned Kora! At 
this the young chief, through the ecstatic joy of his feel- 
ings, lost his balance and, stumbling over a little twig, 
fell forward into the outstretched arms of Kasawayo ! 

For a moment their lips met in a passionate kiss; 
their eyes, out of which shone the light of their love, 
gazed fondly upon each other. 

The travelling fingers of the winds wailed a tender, 
love-like adagio across the night's brooding harp of 
mighty forest trees. Suddenly Kasawayo's lips gave 
forth a scream. Alas ! she had remembered her promise 
to the serpent-god. 

As remembrance came to her, her arms, that were 
still folded round the handsome Kora in a fond embrace, 
shrivelled up, lo! — changed into a bird's wings. 

The serpent-god, far away in his cave, knew what 
Kasawayo was doing! Full of jealousy and hate, he 
waited for the lovers to kiss again. But Kasawayo, 
who also knew the magic of seeing and knowing things 
that were far away, looked up into Kora's eyes and said : 
*' O my Kora, kiss me not again ; should you do so, 
the serpent will be able to turn my body, that you so 
love, into that of a bird." 

Directly Kora heard the scream and felt the rustle 



190 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

of the feathery wings about his shoulders, he stepped 
apart. Looking into Kasawayo's eyes, he said : 

" I will do as you wish, nor would the thing have 
happened but for the interference of the winds and the 
twig of the ndrala-bush. But still it matters not; we 
will thwart the serpent-god's spite. You are still very 
beautiful, though your arms have changed into the wings 
of a bird." 

As Kora whispered this into her ears, Kasawayo 
ceased weeping, gazed up into his eyes, and murmured : 

" Am I really as lovely as I was before I had these 
wings? " 

Saying this, Kasawayo spread out the wings, and in 
doing so revealed the topmost curves of her bosom to 
Kora's eyes. So exquisite was the sight to the youth, 
that in a moment of forgetfulness he stepped forward 
to kiss her once again on her lips and so assure her of 
his love. 

Kasawayo, seeing the brightness of his eyes, and guess- 
ing that which he was about to do, ran backwards a 
few steps. Putting her wings out, she cried : 

" O Kora, kiss me not, for if you do I shall lose these 
limbs that you have touched and told me are so 
beautiful!" 

Kora, in the distraction of not being able to fold her 
in his arms and kiss her lips, placed his hand to his 
eyes and stared across the moonlit forest in deep thought. 
Then, turning to Kasawayo, he said : 

" Where is this terrible serpent-god ? I am deter- 
mined to have your love and kisses. I will go and kill 
the serpent." 

Saying this, Kora drew his stalwart form up to its 
full height, and, taking hold of his big war-club, swung 
it around his handsome head three times! Kasawayo, 
who possessed all the beautiful cunning that mortal 



KASAWAYO AND THE SERPENT 191 

woman reveals when she would protect the one she loves, 
gazed upon the youth with thoughtful eyes. 

" Kora, my beloved, you are only a mortal ; and, 
though I know well that you are brave and strong, still 
my heart is heavy at the thought of your meeting the 
serpent-god in combat.'* 

Side by side the lovers walked through the forest 
and said not a word to each other. Kasawayo, who 
longed to feel Kora's arms about her, said not a word, 
because in her heart she knew that her companion was 
but a weak mortal, and so might be tempted to do the 
very thing that would enable the god to turn her into 
a complete bird again. 

Many times did Kora glance sideways at her beauty, 
and his frame was thrilled with thoughts of love. At 
length he looked around at Kasawayo, who, truth to tell, 
had slipped a little into the rear so as to help Kora to 
resist temptation. Then he said : 

" O lovely spirit from shadowland, I can stand this 
delay no longer. If you do not let me go and fight the 
serpent, I am quite certain that I shall embrace and 
kiss you." 

" So be it ! " said the sad spirit-woman, for she too 
longed for the kisses of that mortal youth. 

With her heart trembling violently with a great fear, 
Kasawayo said : " Come on ! come ! " and, turning round 
again, led Kora towards the sea in the direction of the 
serpent-god's cavern. 

As they walked along, Kasawayo's wings drooped and 
almost covered the delicate flanks of her form. Kora, 
who enviously watched every step of her soft feet as 
they stirred the moonlit flowers of the forest floor, sighed 
and sighed at the thought of the serpent-god's power. 
Often as they tramped along, Kora had to hide his eyes 
with one of his hands, for, as Kasawayo turned round 



192 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

the bends of the twining forest track, one wing would 
flop slightly sideways and so reveal the smoothness and 
exquisite beauty of her form. 

Presently they arrived at the mossy slopes that led 
down to the seashore. For a moment they both 
stood still and gazed through the forest breadfruit 
trees out upon the silvered moonlit waters of the 
sea. 

Suddenly Kasawayo cried out: 

" Oh, hark ! though the ocean is calm, I can hear the 
moaning of the thundering seas beating against the 
barriers of the serpent-god's cavern." Then, with a deep 
sigh, she continued : " O Kora, that noise that w^e hear 
is a sure sign that the serpent is in a terrible passion 
because I love you. Oh, what shall we do, what shall 
we do?" 

She gazed into Kora's eyes with tenderness, for the 
beauty of mortality and immortality shone in the same 
e3^e-light. 

Suddenly, with a cry of delight, as a thought came to 
her, she said : 

" O my beloved Chief, I have just thought how we 
can outwit the serpent-god. For listen ! though you die, 
still you will be mine, for, being a spirit, I shall then 
be able to take you away to shadowland." 

As the handsome Fijian chief listened, he lifted his 
war-club and half imagined that he was already fighting 
the serpent-god. 

Kasawayo gazed with admiration upon his herculean 
frame, and sighed at the thought that she would never 
possess him in a mortal state. Then she thought like 
unto this : 

" But, still, I shall have his spirit in shadowland, and, 
though even goddesses cannot have all they want, I shall 
be satisfied with the spirit of so beautiful a youth, and, 



KASAWAYO AND THE SERPENT 193 

more, I can fold him in my arms and imagine he is a 
beautiful mortal." 

Her reflections were suddenly interrupted by Kora, 
who gazed upon her with impassioned glance, and said : 

*' Kasawayo, tell me where this cavern is. I would 
meet the serpent at once, and, vanquishing it in combat, 
possess your love and kisses." 

Kasawayo looked earnestly into Kora*s eyes, then, 
falling forward on one of her rounded knees, and holding 
a small bamboo branch in front of her bosom so that 
their figures should be shielded from temptation, said : 

" Kora, O beloved, let us gaze upon each other a 
moment, for methinks it will be the last time I can drink 
in your mortal beauty with these eyes." 

So for a little while did they kneel together, inclining 
their figures one towards the other. Poor Kora, who 
was so truly mortal, gently blew his breath so that it 
would reach Kasawayo's tresses. As the soft, jetty curls 
swayed gently to and fro to the zephyrs that crept from 
his impassioned lips and revealed the curves of the god- 
dess's dimpled shoulders, he said : 

" O Kasawayo, 'tis sweet to breathe so, and know tha£ 
at least my breathing caresses your loveliness." 

"Ah me!" softly responded Kasawayo, as she, too, 
breathed likewise, blowing the curls of Kora's forehead 
to and fro with the warm breath of her passion. The 
very branches of the tall bamboos and palms seemed to 
bend in leafy sympathy over them as they knelt and 
gazed into each other's eyes. 

" May I not touch, with my finger outstretched so, 
the softest dimple of your throat, Kasawayo?" 

Kasawayo trembled from head to feet and nearly fell 
forward at the pleading of the one whom she so much 
loved. And it is rumoured that all the maidens who slept 
at that moment in the native village of Nadranga, which 



194 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

is on the banks of the river a mile away, dreamed of 
the one youth who truly loved them, not only for their 
beauty, but for the light of shadowland that shone in 
their eyes. 

It so happened that Kora, seeing the weakness of 
Kasawayo, as she nearly fell forward into his arms, 
quickly came to the rescue ; for he at once ceased blowing 
his breath into the tangled mass of hair that fell on the 
goddess's bosom. Then he swiftly placed his hand be- 
fore his eyes, and hid from Kasawayo's sight the hght 
that he knew would prove their undoing if he persisted 
in gazing upon her. 

Leaping to his feet he said : 

" Come, O my loved one, let me go and vanquish this 
serpent-god. I never knew that I could hate a god so 
much as I now hate the god who has come between us." 

Kasawayo led the way down the slope. In a few 
moments they both stood, like statues of despair, outside 
the door of the serpent-god's cavern. 

" Come forth, O serpent ! " said Kora, as he struck 
his war-club a mighty blow against the coral rocks that 
stood like pillars at the awful doorway. 

Kasawayo, remembering how she had promised to be 
faithful to the god, trembled as her lover once more 
struck the coral-pillars, till one of them fell crash at her 
feet. 

It was then that a great, roaring sound, and what 
sounded like the angry lashing of a mighty tail, came 
out from the cavern's gloom. Then the serpent's huge 
head appeared at the cavern's door. In a moment Kora 
bravely sprang forward, and the battle began. 

Silently Kasawayo watched. She knew that Kora 
was mortal, and so had little chance in such an unequal 
combat. So well did she know how the battle w^ould go, 
that she did not even cry out when the serpent's tail 



KASAWAYO AND THE SERPENT 195 

gave the brave Kora a terrible blow that stretched him 
dead at her feet. For a moment she watched with a 
strange look in her eyes. She knew that, did he not 
truly love her, he would still lie as one dead. But it was 
not so, for, as she watched, and the m.oonlight touched 
Kora's dead face, his shadow left his mortal body and 
leapt straightway into Kasawayo's outstretched arms. 
The serpent-god, seeing this happen before his eyes, 
roared with rage till the cavern shook and the rocks 
around trembled as though from an earthquake. Going 
forward on his belly, the god slashed at Kora's body 
with his tail. But It was only a dead body, and could 
not be hurt more than death had hurt it. Looking up, 
in his fearful rage, he saw Kasawayo and Kora's spirit 
hand in hand as they rushed away along the seashore. 

The first pale glimmer of dawn tinted the eastern 
skyline, and yet a few stars were shining, when the little 
Fijian children awoke in the villages. They all came 
running out of the hut doors in the village of Rumbo- 
Rumbo. 

There was not a breath of wind stirring the palm trees 
that sheltered their hut groves. So they rushed off fast 
towards the sea to catch the fish In the shore lagoons. 
Suddenly, as they ran along and the Liikas (parrots) 
wheeled across the skies from the far-off mountains, they 
all stood perfectly still. It was a wonderful sight that 
met their gaze. For there, up In the sky, they distinctly 
saw the spirits of Kasawayo and Kora, with their large 
wings outspread, as they faded away with the stars far-off 
over the seas. 

And to this very day, by the hut fires of the native 
villages, the frizzly-headed old chiefs tell the children 
how the handsome warrior Kora was seen In the arms 
of the beautiful Kasawayo, as they passed away, flying 



196 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

together into shadowland — ages and ages ago. And still 
the Fijians gaze with eyes of awe and complete rever- 
ence at the serpents that glide across the forest floor 
of their lovely isles. And if a chief should kill a bird 
with gold tipping its wings, loud are their lamentations. 
..•••• • 

A few days after my experiences in Fiji, I secured a 
berth on a fore-and-aft schooner that was bound for 
Samoa. After the usual discomfiture and rebellious irri- 
tation to one of my temperament when obeying the orders 
of disciplinary shipboard life, I arrived at Apia. The 
skipper, who had relieved the monotony of the voyage 
by telling me of his experiences when he sailed as mate 
under the notorious Captain Bully Hayes, gave me sev- 
eral pounds above my set wages, thus showing his ap- 
preciation of my violin-playing. I had often done my 
level best to extemporize suitable obligato to his vocal 
attempts when he invited me into the stuffy cuddy after 
eight bells. The mate died on the voyage across, and 
when we buried him in his hammock-shroud, the skipper, 
who read the burial service, had the best that was in 
him awakened. Like most men he had a kind, brotherly 
side to his rough exterior, and, as is usual with most 
men, his congenial side only revealed itself through feel- 
ing the near presence of the cold, poetic hand of death. 
I know his voice was tremulous when he said, " Let 
go ! '' and we softly dropped " Scotty " the mate into 
the calm depths of the hot, tropic seas, where he left 
a few bubbles behind him. Just before Scotty died, I 
held his hand and said a few kind things, and I like to 
fancy that his soul remembered and touched the skipper's 
heart with a generous impulse so that I might arrive 
in Samoa with plenty of cash in my pocket 

Being wealthy and having an hereditary hatred for 
work, I mooched about for days, admiring the semi- 



KASAWAYO AND THE SERPENT 197 

poetic life of the natives, enjoying the generous fellow- 
ship of the truest democracy the world ever harboured 
or is ever likely to see. Then I met an aged mat- 
worshipper. First, I must say that mat-worship was a 
strange old Samoan custom that was still believed in 
by the aged chiefs when I was a boy. A bit of old 
tappa-cloth or fibre carpet was regarded as a sacred 
object (efua). 

This etua was supposed to be a wonderful talisman, a 
kind of Aladdin's lamp; it was the "Open Sesame" 
to all its worshippers' hopes on earth and in the under- 
world life-to-be. I became deeply interested in those 
old mats, my susceptibilities being aroused much the 
same as are the susceptibilities of those who visit the 
ruins of ancient Rome and Pompeii. The mat-worshipper 
with whom I became acquainted was an aged chief who 
lived near Safata village. He possessed one of the afore- 
said revered objects. There it hung, just over his sleep- 
ing-couch in his hut. Through being repeatedly kissed 
and rubbed by the chief and his ancestors, for Heaven 
only knows how many generations, it was dilapidated 
and threadbare. I recall the very light that shone in that 
aged chief's eyes as he gazed on his sacred mat. Though 
very aged he was still a fine distinguished-looking old 
man. A vivid scar stained his well-curved, tawny shoul- 
ders, for he had been a great warrior in his early days. 
Throwing the tribal insignia of knighthood (a large 
tappa-cloth rug of beautiful design) over his shoulders, 
he drew himself up in a majestic manner, and gave me 
a half-critical glance of defiance as I held my nose — for 
that old mat smelt like the unclean hide of a mangy dog. 
It was, to him, the most romantic and sacred of relics 
and its odour exquisite incense! Young as I was, my 
curiosity was aroused. 

"What is it for? Why so beautiful?" I inquired. 



198 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

Whereupon the old chief's tattooed brow puckered up, 
looking like a piece of parchment covered with hiero- 
glyphics. He gazed upon me half in pity, half in scorn. 
Once more he reverentially gazed upon the mat. Then 
in pigeon English, and with many half-childish gesticula- 
tions, he endeavoured to enlighten my profound igno- 
rance as to the hidden virtues of that threadbare symbol 
of the beautiful. 

" It am great god-mat, belonga to great chief only. 
You white man, but all-e-samee you fool, you not one 
great chief, you no got mat — eh? " 

So saying, he reverently lifted the mat from the wall- 
nail and carried it outside the hut, where I discovered 
that it was not such a dirty old bit of rubbish after all. 
I quickly cast aside the assumed reverential aspect with 
which I had masked myself that I might hide my boyish 
levity. For, suddenly, I too gazed with genuine interest 
on that mouldy object. Lo ! particles of its threadbare- 
ness glistened, shone in the sunlight! A tender feeling 
came to me for that dirty old bit of matting when I did 
exactly as the old native bade me — touched with my 
fingers the shining skeins that waved among its coarse 
fibres : it was the hair of some dead woman ! It appeared 
that some ancestress of the old chief's had imparadised 
that relic, for there shone her hair that had been deli- 
cately, cleverly woven into the fibres of his sacred mat. 

I was greatly impressed by that old maf s secret. Often 
in my world-wide travels I have been asked to inspect 
the heirlooms of great families and the relics of faded 
dynasties, but nothing seems to have aflFected me or 
aroused my admiration as that old mat and the pride of 
its possessor did. 

..•••• • 

It was about this period that I met another character 
whom I found quite as interesting as my friend who 



KASAWAYO AND THE SEHPENT 199 

owned the sacred mat. This new character was a poet. 

''Talofa! Tusitala!" said the wrinkled native poet 
when he welcomed me into his humble homestead. 

Then I played him several heathen strains on my violin. 
His profile was of a Dantesque type, the nose finely 
curved, and the deep-set eyes full of mtellect. He pros- 
trated himself at my feet when I had finished playing 
to him. I can never feel grateful enough to the old 
mat-worshipper for introducing that mighty poet to me. 
The wonderful tales he told and the delight I derived 
from his friendship (for we went troubadouring to- 
gether), have made me wealthy in many a memory since. 

In Part H of this Volume I will endeavour to give 
an impression of my memory of O Le Langi, the pagan 
poet. 



Part Two 



PART TWO 

CHAPTER X. O LE LANGI THE PAGAN POET 

A Pagan Poet — Influence of Byron and Keats — Star- 
myths — Enchanted Crab. 

The imaged stars the oceans knew a million years ago 
Are dancing in the eyes of all the cities that I know! 
The man who sails to heathenland to preach the newest creed 
Sees in the happy pagan's eyes his own soul's greatest need. 
But these are aimless rhymes and will be understood by few. 
Because I am the poet of those old things men call new. 

IN the shadowland regions of a barbarian poet's brain 
flows the river Lethe that murmurs the most subtle 
music of sentient Nature. Of such a poet I shall tell 
in the following pages, one whom I instinctively under- 
stood. For I also have stood in the primeval forest 
and " heard the silent thunders of the leaves *' and seen 
the lightnings of a wild bird's eyes, and God's hand 
carving a thousand pillars for the temples of Nature, 
painting magical halls with the storied history of the 
blue days and daubs of all the dead sunsets. Wonderful 
eerie temples they were too. I have even been a pagan 
and half fancied I have seen the dead children creep 
out of the shadows and gaze around as they heard the 
sad songs and whisperings of those old forest trees. Nor 
was I deaf to the cry of anguish from the bleeding forest 
flowers as my foot crushed their uplifted faces of brief 
enough beauty. O Le Langi saw the world with such 
eyes. He was the first poet of his race. He was crammed 
full of mythical light, his imagination touching with 

203 



204 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

splendour all that his eyes gazed upon. He hated most 
white men and their wretched boast of advancement. 
He deeply read the books of Nature, but threw the white 
man's lotu books into the sea ! He too might well have 
cried out to his chastened people who had accepted the 
white man's dogmas and gifts of clothing from the 
European morgues: 

" Lo ! thirty centuries of literature 
Have curved your spines and overborne your brains." 

O Le Langi's ever earnest cry was: 

Lo ! centuries of grand belief in gods 

Have chasteneth us; my mind a forest is 

Of budding-Hght and thought's bright spirit-flowers 

And faery-wings of Beauty's moving hours. 

I am the darker-age grown old and thin — 

Personified, tattooed from toes to chin, 

And for you and your God care not one pin! 

Such was O Le Langi's cry to the white men — O Le 
Langi, who stands out like some wonderful, tattooed 
bas-relief in the background of my memory. 

O Le Langi means Chief of the Heavens, and, so far 
as his handsome physique and fine, expressive face were 
concerned, he deserved that name. He was a fine sample 
of his race. Though he lived in Samoa, he was a full- 
blooded Marquesan, having emigrated from Nuka-hiva 
to Samoa in his youth. His father had been high chief 
of Queen Vaekehu's royal bodyguard when that South 
Sea Semiramis had reigned supreme over her dominions 
and a thousand death-drums had called the hour of the 
sacrificial festival. O Le Langi's mother had escaped 
from the rods of the French officials by beating a hasty 
retreat from Nuka-hiva to Papeete some fifty years be- 
fore I met him. From Papeete she had stowed away 



O LE LANGI THE PAGAN POET 205 

in a trading schooner with her three little children, O Le 
Langi and her two daughters. 

Both the girls had succumbed to the privations and 
terrors of some long voyage in an open boat which had 
finally drifted O Le Langi and his mother to the Samoan 
Isles. The incidents of that terrible voyage O Le Langi 
only hinted about. Nor was I one who would attempt 
to learn more, it being quite obvious to me that the 
sad old chief had some strange idea that the whole truth 
of those days were best kept a secret in his own heart. 

Though secretive over the tragic history that had 
caused his father's execution and his mother*s flight from 
her native land, O Le Langi never tired of telling me 
the wonders of his tribe, and commemorating in words 
the mighty deeds of his forefathers. 

His knowledge of heathen mythology was marvellous, 
as were the tattooed armorial bearings, the insignia of 
blue blood, which were visible on his massive chest. I 
entertained no doubt whatever as to Le Langi's royal 
pedigree. Seeing that massive human parchment in- 
scribed with wondrous savage hieroglyhpics, the truth 
of all he said was perfectly evident. I knew that the 
Marquesans of royal blood had the tribal mottoes and 
family crest tattooed on their sons before puberty. 

Langi looked liked some Greek god as he stood on 
his village stump, his royal robe of the best tappa-cloth 
swung about his rosewood-hued, majestic frame. Never 
were the graceful, god-like shoulders wholly covered. 
Even the maids, as they listened to his impassioned ora- 
tory, sighed as the lightnings of poetic imagination leapt 
from those fine dark eyes of his. Yes, old as he was. 
By profession he was a travelling scribe, a genuine South 
Sea poet. This talent he had inherited. For I discovered 
that his father had once stood in the barbarian forums 
of Tai-o-hae and spouted the charms of his queen, 



206 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

Vaekehu, commemorating in verse the warrior-like 
deeds of the many brief kings who had ascended her 
throne — and their deaths when she had tired of them. 

His temperament was Byronic, but at times he would 
become strangely imbued with the savage instincts of his 
race, becoming extremely bitter and cynical when his 
fortunes were at a low ebb. For I must confess he had 
a large share of the commercial spirit. This much I 
noticed when he looked into the coco-nut-shell that he 
always passed around amongst his audience. Often one 
could see a poetic grin of extreme satisfaction end the 
handsome wrinkles in a bunch up to the northern territory 
of his high, bald, intellectual physiognomy as he counted 
the collection. 

I never tired of listening to his way of telling the poetic 
legends of his island-world to the white men, though I 
must admit that, beyond myself, few men of my colour 
were interested in all he had to say. Grins and jokes 
and indecent remarks were their highest contribution in 
the way of interest or gifts when he finished his poems. 

I do not exaggerate in saying that, though Langi could 
not speak our language better than an English child 
of ten years, he was conversant with the works of many 
of our poets. He had an old volume of Byron. He 
asked me if I knew Keats! 

" He great Tusitala chief! *' he said, when I told him 
Keats was dead. Then he started off in raptures over 
Saturn and the fallen deities and goddesses of Hyperion! 
He had also read Longfellow's Hiawatha. 

It seemed a wonderful thing that one should leave 
one's country and travel thousands of miles across des- 
olate seas and pioneer lands, to find, at last, on a savage 
isle of the remote wild South Seas, a savage who loved 
poetry ! 

It is true enough that the old chief got little apprecia- 
tion out of his talent, but many kicks. 



O LE LANGI THE PAGAN POET 207 

Poor O Le Langi! None of the natural chances of 
the literary world came his way either by birth or luck. 
He was born in a spot remote from all the dubious 
possibilities that the civilized world offers to budding 
aspirants. He had none to puff him. With all his 
astuteness he could seize on no scheme that would ele- 
vate him on a pedestal in the eyes of men. Alas! no 
starving, unrecognized poet of another tribe expired on 
his doorstep, so that the O Le Langi family for successive 
generations might write the dead poet's memoirs, and the 
memoirs of their father's memoirs concerning the poet's 
last sigh and the benevolence of the O Le Langi family 
to the dying poet's last ten minutes ! Ah me ! No pub- 
lisher chanced upon sad O Le Langi till I, a penniless 
traveller, appeared on the scene, recognizing his wonder- 
ful genius. And now that his body is dust beneath his 
beloved coco-palms, I would write these humble memoirs 
and commemorate the dust of the greatest poet I ever 
met on earth. 

It is nothing against the posthumous poetic fame of 
O Le Langi to say that he had loved passionately, more 
than twice. Indeed, it is well known that men who are 
not poets have this mortal failing. 

The amorous weakness of O Le Langi was impressively 
forced upon me, for did I not walk beneath the coco- 
palms and breadfruits to that silent, hallowed spot where 
slumbered his sleeping passions? — the little native ceme- 
tery where slept the dead women and children that he 
had loved. 

It was through this sad visit that I heard so much; 
for as O Le Langi knelt over each little mound of crum- 
bling dust he kissed the earth and wept like a child. I 
saw at a glance that the solid earth did not hide from 
the eyes of imagination the stretched figures, the 
eyes, the lips, and the little fingers that he had once 
loved. 



208 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

Rising to his feet he surveyed me with solemn eyes, 
then said: 

"Ah, Papalagi, me now grow old and weak; me now 
belonger to fool time." 

" No, you don't, great O Le Langi, high chief of hand- 
some bearing, and mightiest poet of the South Seas," 
said I. 

My heart was truly sorry for the old savage man, 
and well I knew that such flattery was worth its weight 
in gold at such a melancholy hour. 

Then I continued, as with an effort he drew his tat- 
tooed shoulders up to their full proportion and looked 
at the sky: 

" O Le Langi, they still live, those whom you love. 
We all live again." 

'* But I no elision or popy mans " (christian or prayer- 
man), he responded in a mournful voice. 

*'Phew! O great O Le Langi! It matters not a 
tinker's curse what you are so long as you remain as 
you are." 

For a moment the old chief looked about him, as 
though half in fright, then, seeing that we were un- 
observed, he leaned forward and said : 

" You nicer man. You no think much of ole white- 
beard-Man-big-nose ? " 

"Who's he?" said L 

" Ole Misson-loom mans (mission-room man) who 
mournful voice, and who look at me and tell me that 
I one big liar! " 

"Why?" said I, as the old poet's face seemed to 
flush beneath its tawny hue at the thought of such an 
affront to his veracity. 

" I tells 'im I w^anter no go white man's 'eaven. 
I go 'eathen 'eaven. Then 'e says, * There am no 'eathen 
'eaven; yous sinfuls mans! ' " 



O LE LANGI THE PAGAN POET 209 

Saying this, the old poet squatted down on his mat, 
which he ever carried under his arm, and inspired by 
grief dropped into the following poetic effusion. (The 
sun had long since set, and the shadows lay deep in 
the hollows by Mutoua. I sat down beside him, and 
as he commenced in sombre tones, the o le nianoa sang 
its passionate strain up in the flamboyants over and over 
again. ) 

I recall the very note of that strange night-bird's song 
as O Le Langi meandered on in this wise : 

white mans from across big waters, 

1 die not though my body die, be dust: 
The waving pauroas, the ripening coco-nuts, 
The maona in the forest singing, singing, 
The stars softly dropping from great darkness 
To whisper as they meet in deep, still lagoons, 
The deep caves by Savan, and Momo, 

The eyes of children romping by the red sea-shore 
When even falls — / say, O white mans, 
All these things shall be my dead-heart dreaming I 
I great chief of gods, so never die dead. 

" And will you see your loved ones again when you 
die, O Le Langi? " 

My love ones live, they are not dead. 

They shine, their eyes in sky of darkness — 

When sings the maona my dead love makes stars four! 

Her children shine as eight stars far away. 

She watch down sky, ever look far north-west, 

As the big night passeth over moani ali ^ 

Sometimes my love blink her eyes, and then 

The little stars all laugh and clap hands! 

And lo! stars shoot 'cross sky out of Poluto's halls. 

" 'Tis good O Le Langi, to know that your loved one 
watches with her starry eyes over your dead children," 
I responded, as the scented sea wind stirred the feathery 

^ The sea. 



210 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

palms and dying forest flowers. The very trees seemed 
to sigh some mystery into my ears as the old poet spoke, 
or rather chanted on, saying that which I have so weakly 
told. For a moment O Le Langi did not answer. Then, 
with his massive chest swelling with emotion, he slowly 
raised his handsome, old wrinkled face. He looked like 
some marvellous bronze statue as he lifted his head and 
chin skyward. I dared not speak as I saw him lift his 
arm and, with hand archwise over his eyes, stare at 
that tremendous manuscript of heathen-night. Then he 
pointed with one long, tawny finger to the heavens. For 
a little moment that dark, thin finger wavered with in- 
decision, then it steadily pointed straight toward the 
far north-west — and lo! I saw his beloved dead (her 
who had died thirty years before) looking out of the 
sparkling constellation. Yes, two bright stars — ^her eyes ! 
It appeared that she was watching over the little group 
of pale stars that wistfully stared from the east to the 
north-west — they were the spirits of O Le Langi*s four 
dead children. It was some time ere he lowered his 
chin, for he had watched long and strangely those stars 
that he claimed. 

As the shadows deepened and wild odours of citrons 
and decaying pineapples drifted on the cool sea wind, I 
relit my pipe. Once more the old poet looked at me 
with ambitious pride gleaming from his eyes over my 
rapt attention and praise. Then he continued in sombre 
tones that which was apparently of magnificent import 
to him: 

One night I stand by sea-coast, dreaming 

Of old chief who had longer been dead in forest grave. 

I felt much sad as shadows of night falling 

Went like big lava-lava round the waist of Night 

As her big black feet rest on side of moonrise ! 

Long before stars in sky go indoors of morning, 



O LE LANGI THE PAGAN POET 211 

As god open door and let sun walker out 'gain into sky. 
Then I looker at sea and saw old crab out walking: 
Creepy up shore it looker me sideway artful. 
" I know ! I know ! "" / say to myself s, " you am no crab that 

belonger sea, 
You am ole chief from Poluto, disguised in crab-case. 
That's whater you ares ! " 

" What did the old crab, the chief, I mean, say then? " 
said I, as the old poet leaned his chin right down to the 
hieroglyphic tattoo of his chest, lapsing into deep thought. 
In respectful attitude I awaited his next inspiration, 
which came in this wise: 

He wise ole crab-chief and know much, O Pagalagi. 

So he look up at me and say in voice like deep music of waters: 

" O Le Langi, greatest high chief of these parts, 

Chief who 'ave listen to the Miser ilinaries ' and hung head, 
But still thoughter mucher of great gods all while, 

1 say: the gods of Poluto and the great Tangaloa 

Still tramp, tramp across the great sky-floors of shadowland. 

They do say with voice of thunders in mountains: 

' That great O Le Langi seems most faithful to us; 

Therefore, though all the forest children desert us, 

We still put forth our hands and scatter stars — 

Stars across the skies of shadowland. 

We still break old moons across our mighty knees 

To brighten the Atua halls of long ago I 

We still catch winds that creep across worlds of mortals 

And take from their shifting, clutching fingers 

The thoughts of dead mothers for children. 

We still gently pull out the thoughts of dead maids and hopeful 

loves 
As we pull up the old swnsets from the oceans. 
Our vassal, the great Matagi wind, it still catch the prayers of 

our faithful chddren — 
And yet who am more faithful than the great O Le Langi?'" 

" O Le Langi/' said I/' I feel sure that the gods have 
no more faithful servant." 

^ Missionaries. 



212 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

Lifting his hand aloft as he stared seawards to hide 
the embarrassment he felt over my praise, he continued : 

*Tis I, Le Langi, who maker children faithful: 

I preach on sly to all little ones and old chiefs and chiefesses. 

I tell them wonders of shadowland as the evening falls. 

The fantoes creeper from huts doors and kneel at my feets and 

listen and listen! 
Some nights I go down, down in great caves of Underworld! 
A longer way I go, till I at lasse come to big 'nother world. 
It shine 'neath 'nother big sky of blue and red stars. 
I sit on small star and great god Tangalora sit on his throne by 

the big moon, and he say: 
"Halloa! great O Le Langi, what you wanter?"" 
Then I says: " Show me ole chiefs who die, and all dead peoples'* 
Great Tangalora say: "O Le Langi — look!" 
He have lift big veil of Night, quick! — / stare and see 
Beautiful country of mighty trees and fruits, 
Big moonlit seas dashing by shore of bright Atua; 
I see my dead tribe dancing, waving arms, singing, singing to 

heathen land stars! 
Then big shadow hand of god Tangalora move and drop big 

veil of Night — 
And I no longer in Underworld. 

"But what became of that old crab?" said I, as the 
old chief looked about him and seemed to have forgotten 
the commencement of his story. 

Ah me, Papalagi, the old crab look up and say: 
"Halloa! O Le Langi, you been in Underworld? " 
And then I say " Yes." 

And then crab say: "Did you 'appen to see beautiful 
Linger Loa, whom I once love mucher, she who once my wife?" 
Then I look at crab and say: 

" Why, yes! I did see Linger Loa! and she say to me: 
'Have you see old crab on shores by S avail Isle?' 
And I say: ' Yes!* 

And then she say, as she beat bosom liker this (here the chief 
punched his breast vigorously), 



O LE LANGI THE PAGAN POET 213 

' O great O Le Langi, when you nex see the old crab, you tell 

him I still lover him much; 
And tell him that, when ten thousand moons have passed away, 
He once more he turn to chief by gods, and so 
Will come back to arms of poor Linger Loa who longer see 



"And what did the old crab say to all that, O Le 
Langi ? " said I. 

Ah me! The great chief -crab looker up at me with sad eyes. 
Then he sigh and walk sideways down to sea. 
And, shedding tears, plunged into the deep water. 



CHAPTER XI. R. L. S. IN SAMOA 

O Le Langi's Influence— Heathen Magic — Poetic Aspira- 
tions — Ramao and Essimao-Samoan Types — Robert Louis 
Stevenson and the " Beautiful White Woman " — O Le 
Langi becomes a Part of the Forest — " Here Lies O Le 
Langi " — A Great Truth. 

Here, by a tiny pagan hut, 

A kid, star-eyed and brown, 

Chews off the milky coco-nut 

That grew just up the town ! 

As I, my back turned t'wards the sun, 

Stare out across the seas 

Wherefrom strange melodies come in and run 

Across the Island's trees. 

AH, sublime poet O Le Langi ! It was your elemental 
poetic genius, more than the inspirations of the poets 
of my own land, that first turned my thoughts to the 
magic of the seas, skies, travelling stars, and the strange 
look in men's eyes. 'Twas you who made me hear the 
ineffable sounds of music, the visionary sights and the 
wonders of night and moonlight in the forest. Yours 
was the mercy that lent me the ear to hear the plead- 
ing voice of the unfledged song in the red-splashed bird's 
egg, till I carefully climbed back and laid it once more 
in the mossy nest high in the banyans. It was you who 
inspired me to stand on the palm-clad slopes, by the 
sapphire-hued Pacific waters, and see the glorious mist 
of God's breath pervade the circumambient life of this 
mirror of a universe that shadows forth His infinite 
dreams. 'Twas you who led me into the magic parlour 
of infinite splendour where birds, goddesses, and gods 

214 



R. L. S. IN SAMOA 215 

sang and lifted their goblets of nectar, toasting in song 
their joy and thanksgiving to the laughing, flying hours — 
hours that peeped through the magic door of the sunrise. 
I too stood by that wondrous shanty door, where the 
palms sang, and stretched my shadow-arm to the sky- 
line, while with goblet in hand I dipped and filled it 
to the brim with the sparkling foam from the golden 
sunsets of the wine-dark seas ! Yes, Langi, I also drank 
the intoxicating ecstasy of those foaming hours of crim- 
son and golden light. Yet, Langi, I, sceptic that I was, 
once doubted you when yoii stood by the moonlit water- 
falls of the forest and swore that you saw the silvery 
flowing beards and big jagged knees of the gods. In 
the blindness of my worldly vision I swore that it was 
nothing more than the foaming moonlit waters falling 
down the fern-clad crags of the mountain's side: no 
knees, no gigantic rugged faces of gods at all! I even 
doubted that the dark, Old-Man-Frog's hind-legs, as he 
swam deep in the still depths of the star-mirroring water 
of the lagoon, touched with his webbed feet and scat- 
tered the constellation of stars that were the proud eyes 
of your mighty ancestors who ever watched over you 
from the skies out to the north-west. Ah, how blind 
I was! But I became a true pagan after that. It was 
I who taught you to sing the songs of Cathay and the 
melodies of mediaeval romance of Long Ago. Who will 
believe that we heard the winds tolling the bells of Time, 
faintly, far away in some infinite belfry of the stars, 
as the violin wailed and your aged, cracked voice chanted? 
Yes, long ago, when strange, blue-eyed Danes and 
Homeric sailormen from the semi-fabled seas threw silver 
coins into our old collecting-calabash ! I thank you and 
Heaven, O Le Langi, that once I was rich beyond the 
dreams of avarice. Notwithstanding the beauty and 
truth of the Christian apostles, it was you, old heathen, 



216 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

who invested me with a glamour, threw over the shoulders 
of this dilapidated catastrophe Me, a magical cloak, the 
texture whereof I am unable to explain. That old cloak 
of many colours and glorious illusions has long since 
been torn to a thousand shreds. But out of each old 
heap, the debris of shattered illusions, have blossomed, 
from the seeds of old enchantments, other flowers. 
Beautiful too are the flowers of disenchantment! But 
away with such rhapsodizing, for I must return as grace- 
fully as possible to my immediate memoirs. 

About this time I had a recurrence of yellow jaundice. 
My liver was a healthy one; but on my first visit to 
Samoa, a year before, I had foolishly eaten of some red- 
berry fruit that turned out to be most poisonous. I 
had, in consequence, suffered a serious illness. Indeed, 
I had turned a yellowish-green, and finally had taken 
a voyage to Honolulu to seek special medical advice. 
Whilst in Honolulu my visage became so distressingly 
yellow and my aspect so melancholy that the chief under- 
taker, Rami Sarhab, gave me fifteen dollars a week to 
act as chief mute and mourner at the royal burial 
ceremonies. But even in this capacity my services failed 
lugubriously; for I felt such pain in the abdomen, was 
so intensely sad, that the envy expressed in my eyes and 
on my bilious-green physiognomy for the deep, painless 
slumber of the defunct was conspicuous to all eyes, as I 
walked ahead of the hearse, endeavouring my best to 
mourn over the dreamless sleep of the departed. Thank 
Heaven, my second attack of jaundice left me in a few 
days. A local native physician, Rimoloo, recommended 
me to drink deeply of the water from boiled yams and 
breadfruits flavoured with Holland gin; and my delight 
on changing colour at the fourth gallon can be better 
imagined than described to those who have drunk of the 
aforesaid mixture. 



R. L. S. IN SAMOA 217 

While enjoying the congenial companionship of O Le 
Langi I deserted my study of instrumental music and 
harmony and turned my thoughts to poetry. A trader 
at Matautu, Savaii Isle, had presented me with a volume 
of A. L. Gordon's poems and Whitman's Leaves of Grass. 
The perusal of these volumes amidst romantic surround- 
ings intensified the ardent love I have ever felt for Nature 
in all her wildest moods. Indeed, I have often stood 
before an aged, dying forest-tree and felt some affec- 
tionate kinship with its sensate sorrow over its approach- 
ing dissolution. Strange as it may seem to some, I must 
confess that old wooden ships, deserted huts, stuffed 
birds, and the like have appealed to me far more than 
the tender melodies of beautiful songs and the thrills 
of romantic books. Even the thick mahogany wood 
of my arm-chair calls up vistas of some mammoth tree 
of the southern forest. What song-birds settled on its 
boughs to stay and sing awhile on their flight! And 
what wild men, women, and weary children on the 
strange, long tribal march camped beneath their shelter 
— the shelter of boughs that now encircle my recumbent, 
dreaming form in this inn's carven arm-chair! 

I remember that, after reading Whitman's poems, I 
began to write words to the many melodies that I was 
continually composing. I was surprised at the ease 
with which poetical ideas seemed to come to me. My 
brain teemed with suitable poetic similes. But my work- 
manship was execrable. Many of my lyrics were inspired 
by home-sickness. I recall that I wrote about thirty 
songs. Probably three of them were good. I know that 
I set a high value on those sentimental lyrics and that 
I placed them in my tin box with my prized volume of 
E. Front's Harmony and Counterpoint, so that they 
might be safe until that day when I could submit them 
to a publisher. But no publisher's musical editor ever 



218 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

had them inflicted upon him. My ship, a year later, was 
wrecked off the Solomon Isles; and I stood under the 
shore palms, with all my beloved inspirations at the 
bottom of the ocean, and passed in review, so I grimly 
imagined, by the tuneful mermaids of the coral seas. 
Many of the stranded sailors' effects were washed ashore 
the next day, but were immediately snatched up by the 
thieving natives, who bolted off with them into the moun- 
tain villages. Perhaps those wild tattooed men got hold 
of my sacred tin box. And if any talented cannibal sings 
my old songs, and is well up in the mysteries of harmony 
and counterpoint, he has undoubtedly made greater head- 
way in that difficult art than I had in those days. But 
still, it is something that I should be able to claim to 
be the first who introduced E. Front's volume of Har- 
mony and Counterpoint into the cannibal Solomon Isles. 
I remember that O Le Langi asked me to translate the 
words of many of his legendary poems Into my own 
language. My heathen poet's face lit up with pride when 
I sang some of his songs in my own tongue, and with 
equal pride made a forcible accent on the rhymes so 
that he could hear how the lines went. O Le Langi 
at once enticed me to go with him round the coast 
to Mootua, so that I might let his rival scribes hear 
how nice his poems sounded when translated into the 
great Papalagi's language. He was so delighted with 
the obvious jealousy that was expressed on the wrinkled 
faces of his rivals that he struck his chest thrice and 
flung one hand behind his back. I discovered that this 
act of Langi's was a direct challenge to them to compose 
the words of a song as well as he. One of the older 
scribes, at once accepting the challenge, stepped forward 
and, swelling the magnificent hieroglyphic tattoo of his 
chest, chanted an impromptu legend. Though I could 
not understand all the words of this legendary improvi- 



R. L. S. IN SAMOA 219 

zation, I remember that the melody was so effective that 
I extemporized with ease an accompaniment on my 
violin. This brought forth a volley of applause from 
the whole tribe, who had rushed from their huts to listen 
to the wonderful magic wood-scraping of the white 
Tusitala (maker of songs). For a while I quite expected 
there would be a fight between the rivals. But things 
smoothed down. I was finally awarded a calabash of 
kava, which I courteously placed to my lips, and then, 
whilst the chiefs were talking, poured the contents into 
the fern grass at my feet. At this moment the high 
chief's daughter, a sea-blue-eyed maid with a veritable 
forest of bronze-hued hair, fell on one knee before me 
and started to sing a weird melody. For a moment I 
was considerably embarrassed. I soon, however, recov- 
ered my wits, and then I took her hand and bade her 
rise. My imagination clothed me with a majesty which 
I had gathered from my old novels. And I distinctly 
recall the admiration in the eyes of the onlookers as I 
slightly lifted my helmet hat and then bowed as though 
I were some mighty king paying court to a princess of 
a neighbouring dynasty. She handed me a beautifully 
carved tortoise-shell comb from her hair, and the glance 
that accompanied the gift cannot be divulged in mere 
words. I responded by diving my hand into my breast 
pocket, and then handed her a really valuable silver 
match-box. She blushed deeply, for the munificence of 
my return gift was obvious. That same night O Le 
Langi and myself were the chief guests at the festival 
board of the fale fapiile (chief house). And as I sat at 
the head of the long low table and the steam rose from 
the mighty dishes of roast pig and many indigenous 
fruit dishes, Essao's eyes, for that was her name, gave 
me swift, bright glances that told all that a romantic 
Samoan maid's eyes can tell when her heart warms to 



220 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

a stranger. But, notwithstanding my ardent nature and 
the lure of her bright eyes, I was saved from early matri- 
mony, for when the head chief caught me bowing 
gallant acknowledgments to his daughter's eyes, his 
brow wrinkled up into a tortuous map of disapproval. 

Nevertheless, when Q Le Langi and I left the village 
that night, Essao gave me her tenderest secret glance 
and managed to present me with a flower from her hair. 
Though I did not see her again, I wrote many verses 
about her beauty. 

I think that it was about this period that I wrote 
several of the poems that were later on published in my 
little booklet of Australian and South Sea Lyrics. This 
little booklet of verse, to my surprise and pleasure, was 
highly praised in the literary journals in England, and 
also brought me letters of encouragement from such men 
as Henry Newbolt, William Michael Rossetti, and Robert 
Bridges. 

But to proceed with those adventurous happy days 
when the light of the great poet O Le Langi' s eyes shone 
upon me. Whilst stopping with Langi I was down with 
severe fever. I was staying at the time in a native 
homestead quite near to the aged scribe's residence. 
Langi was very kind to me, and secured the services of a 
native woman to attend to my wants. This Samoan lady 
had a child who was about four years old. He was an 
intelligent little fellow and had ocean-blue eyes and curly 
hair. When I sat up on my bed-mat, tinkling melodies 
on my violin, Ramao, for that was his name, would 
somersault with delight; then once again peep inside 
the F holes of my instrument to see where the music 
came from. Every day he would run off into the forest 
to pluck flowers for me, and would make my bed with 
soft moss, attending to my wants with the unremitting 
solicitude of a lovable, innocent child. Heaven knows 



R. L. S. IN SAMOA 221 

where he learnt the weird songs that he sang to me as 
he sat by my bedside, swaying to and fro Hke some elfin- 
child. Lying there stricken with fever, I would stare 
into his beautiful, original eyes till the whole world 
seemed to be singing in its happy childhood. . I realized 
that the age of four was the golden age of mortal exist- 
ence, the age that understands the grandest philosophy 
of life, the age when all the infinite possibilities are as 
near consummation as they can well be in this world. 
Much that had puzzled my wretched civilized brain as 
I listened to O Le Langi's long discourses became clear 
to me. Langi was not such a fool after all; it was I who 
was the heathen! The iron laws of my country had sent 
me to school so that my God-given wisdom should be 
strangled by dogmatic heathenish teachers. I recalled 
how the great and splendidly religious Langi had 
crashed his club down on his threshhold, and in magnifi- 
cent declamatory style had said : 

" Pah ! Foolish white-skinned man, he come here 
with his mouldy skull full of worms so that he may 
teach us also to grow old, scraggy, and full of wretched 
wisdom. He hears not the voices of the gods murmur- 
ing in the children's babblings." Then that aged scribe 
had laid his wrinkled hand on my head, and in sonorous, 
melancholy tones had said : " O Papalagi, I say, your 
people looker beyond the mountains at the stars for the 
wisdom of the great waters when 'tis only to be heard 
in the sweet-toned shells that are scattered on the sunny 
shores of childhood." 

So spake Langi. And I, who knew that we are born 
in fullest possession of the divine faculties only that we 
may grow old and sad, had at once become a true disciple 
of that glorious old heathen. Indeed, I almost succeeded 
in realizing that the peoples of the civilized world were 
my humble attendants, and that O Le Langi, crammed 



222 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

with mythology and strange tales about sad old crabs, 
was a heathen Solomon arrayed in the splendour of the 
stars. Langi could stand on the mountain peaks of 
supreme " ignorance/' whisper into the ear of the uni- 
verse, and, listening, hear those Truths that only murmur 
in some great speech of silence to the soul. 

I know that the light of little Ramao's eyes also filled 
my soul with some strange, intuitive wisdom. When the 
little fellow opened his eyes wide and said: 

" Oh, listen, Papalagi, to the le mao bird as it sings 
to the light of the mountain stars," I did not hear a 
night-bird singing to its mate in the banyan trees, but 
I heard a soft-feathered transmutation of a blue day of 
ages ago singing tenderly, sadly, to some memory of its 
birth in the rosy eternity of the east. Ramao's presence 
in that hut, where I lay sick with fever, cast a poetic 
glamour over my existence. One evening he rushed 
into the hut, and, stooping down by my bed-mat, swiftly 
covered my shoulders with the tappa-rug. Then he 
turned to the doorway and gave a whistle, and softly 
called out: 

" Essimao, come in and see wonderful white boy who 
play on magic wood." 

He had brought his sister to see me. There she stood, 
a charming little maid of about seven years, peeping 
curiously at me through the half -open doorway. I 
called her; and, as though she had been born for the 
purpose of waiting on men in sickness, she straightway 
squatted by me and commenced to sing. Her voice 
rippled from her lips like the deep-stealing music of a 
forest stream. Rising to her feet she swayed softly, 
and it seemed that the rhythm of music rose and fell in 
tiny billows along the graceful movements of her limbs. 
Her laughter was sweetest balm to my fevered soul. 
She was a perfect little gipsy of the sea-nursed south. 



R. L. S. IN SAMOA 223 

I know that if the deHghtful George Borrow, that true 
lover of the Romany Chile, had reached the South Seas 
and had seen Essimao place a sea-shell to her ear and 
swear that she could hear the big moani ali (ocean) 
beating on the shores of God's mountain footstools, 
he would, I am sure, have devoted pages to the beauty 
of Essimao and the religious influence her presence 
inspired. I know that she impressed me more than all 
the Psalms could do. The sayings of the Apostles and 
the teachings of Confucius, down to those of Kant and 
Strindberg, etc., are as nothing to me when compared 
with the wisdom and charm of little Essimao and 
Ramao's four infinite years. Those little philosophers 
made me realize, long ago, the cursed irony of the fates 
in decreeing that man should be born the wrong way 
up, so that we grow old instead of young. But my 
m.emory does not betray me when I assert here that O 
Le Langi was an exception, a phenomenon who had out- 
witted the fates, had never grown out of his wise, 
resplendent infancy. Like the child of four years, he 
was still a mighty philosopher, a true socialist, roman- 
ticist, individualist, poet, humorist, spritualist, realist, 
optimist, pessimist, mystic, maniac, prophet, and one 
who had the transcendentalist's belief in a Supreme 
Being; and lo, all this encased in one skull crammed 
with the divine light that we are all gifted with when 
we are four years old. Ah, the wondrous book that an. 
imaginative child of four years could give us could it 
write down its impressions, its own outlook on life and 
all that it imagines about this world! What marvellous 
truths would its great unworldhness spring upon us! 
Once, when I lay near to death, Ramao lay on one side 
of me and Essimao on the other, placing their fingers 
in sympathy through my hair. I felt that I had travelled 
so far that I had stumbled on the edge of the earth that 



224 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

is nearest the heavens. Perhaps I digress unduly in my 
reflections over Ramao and Essimao, when it is only 
children in the hey-day of life's philosophical prime who 
can understand the truth of that which I say. Few may 
believe the virtues that I claim for my old friend Langi 
and these children. Langi, who had read many of the 
abridged editions of the standard works, cursed the 
outrageous vanity of white men. His nervous, sensitive 
nostrils would dilate, his sonorous, eloquently violent 
voice ringing out like the mellow poetry of old bells as 
he declaimed: 

" Pah ! What am this white Papalagi more than a 
pale-skinned thief of the night? Am he not the dark 
misbeliever who slay our mighty gods and doubt their 
virtues — and us ? " 

" True ! true ! O mighty O Le Langi ! " Fd say, as I 
listened in incorrigible delight, while with chin and hand 
raised to the sky he spoke on : 

" The white Papalagi am one great hypocrite, who 
loveth the earth, money, and old clothes — neither doth 
he smell over-sweet! Where? Where is this God who 
had power to fashion this white man, yet, lo, made some 
First Great Mistake — since I am brown?" And say- 
ing this, O Le Langi dashed his coco-nut-shell goblet 
to the ground, and exclaimed : " Think you 'tis wise 
His faults to change?" And still he would rave on 
in this wise : " I say, O Papalagi, had the first white 
man discovered my people living in one great town 
that had a leaning tower, and one rotunda and nicer 
cathedrals with great stained-glass windows, they would 
have said : ' O great Samoan Peoples ! God's eyelight 
doth shine in thy sight; your women, too, are beautiful 
as the stars and flowers. O wondrous brown men, I 
greet you, Allelujah ! ' " Then, wiping the tears of 
tense emotion from his eyes, he wailed forth : " Alas, 



R. L. S. IN SAMOA 225 

my people lived in huts, therefore were severely be- 
laboured with rods and their daughters sold into slavery 
and worshipped only for their bodies' beauty." 

Even as I write I can hear O Le Langi sigh : " Alas ! 
Alas! Papalagi the faithful," as his ghost peers over 
my shoulder tonight as I pen these memoirs. Yes, O Le 
Langi could see '' Heaven in a wild flower and Eternity 
in a grain of sand." Little Ramao, too, felt quite equal 
to the white men, and honestly claimed everything from 
the stars down to my boots and my violin. He even 
claimed my parents' photographs which I kept in my 
tin box, for he placed them carefully in the folds of his 
lava-lava when I was not looking — true little socialist 
that he was. And, when he fell from the palm tree, 
whilst seeking coco-nuts, and broke his back, he died 
with a smile on his lips that had God's philosophy in it. 

The tears fell fast from O Le Langi's eyes when he 
said: 

" O Papalagi, the seas do roll on for ever, but man 
go back to his fathers." 

Then the winds sighed mournfully in the coco-palms, 
and O Le Langi softly dug his fingers into the heap of 
soft-scented mould, and dropped the first lump of earth 
down on to Ramao's dead, smiling face. 

" Aue ! Aue ! " wailed the stricken mother, as we turned 
away from the graveside. And three or four litde 
children who had stood watching the burial procession 
from the shades of the flamboyant trees, cried: " Wa 
noo ! Wa noo ! " and then disappeared in some fright 
down the forest tracks. Such was the end of Ramao 
as the sunset fired the far-off sea horizon. The cicalas 
were chrruping in the belts of mangroves as we arrived 
once more at Langi's homestead. 

For a long time after that sad incident I fancied I 
could hear some wail of sorrow in the mournful mono- 



226 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

tones of the waves that incessantly beat against the 
barrier reefs. But the splendid reality of the hot sun- 
light again came over the world. Again Time turned 
the withered pages of each blue tropic day, pages that 
faded into the yellowing of each sunset. Flowers on 
the slopes grew musical with bees. Fierce happiness 
reigned in the tribal villages along the coast as the old 
chiefs chanted their savage memories of olden time and 
the children thumped toy drums. Bright-eyed maidens 
and amorous youths laughed and sang. Then O Le 
Langi enticed me to go off troubadouring with him. 

" We maker lot moneys, O Tusitala ! " said he. 

And so I went, and O Le Langi carried my violin 
as we tramped miles and miles visiting the coast villages. 
Sometimes we hired a canoe and paddled to the many 
islets of the Samoan group. With his tappa-robe 
wrapped about him, the tasselled end flung cavalier-wise 
over one shoulder, O Le Langi would stand with chin 
raised as he stood in the old tribal forums of many a 
lonely native village, chanting melodiously as I played 
on my violin. Even the white men, traders and sailors 
in the grog-bars near Matautu, down by the beach on 
Savaii Isle, left their rum mugs, strode to the bar door- 
way, listened and stared, as Langi told wonderful things 
about his old gods, pointing magnificently to the trees, 
the distant mountains and seas, calling them mighty wit- 
nesses of all which he would claim for the beauty of his 
legendary world. The old shellbacks opened their eyes 
in astonishment, tugged their beards, spat seaward, and 
stared again, as the earnest note in his voice gained even 
their ragged respect. It must have been a strange sight 
as my pagan brother-artist stood before them, clothed 
in the majesty of a past tribal chiefdom and the glory 
of a proud imagination that they could not understand. 
But what cared I, as with fiddle to my chin I played on, 



R. L. S. IN SAMOA 22T 

my helmet hat tilted back on my head, till O Le Langi's 
wheezy voice gave the final chant ere he snatched that 
dilapidated shelter from the tropic sun off my head, 
and held it under the eyes of those sunburnt men from 
the seas! 

Ah, memory of Langi and true romance! Great, 
unlaurelled poet of the South Seas, how satisfied you 
were with your earthly existence! How satisfied with 
the p6etic fame you achieved as your kind critics cast 
coins of approval into my shabby helmet hat — that old 
hat that held the joy and romance of my youth and all 
that was wealth inexhaustible to you — and me! Often 
in my deeper dreams I see you standing beneath your 
beloved palms near Apia as you watch the gold of the 
setting sun sinking into the western seas. Ah, kind old 
heathen, again I see your grim glance when you look 
at the woebegone faces of the missionaries as they pass 
you by; and, as you watch them, I see your aged lips 
smile and quiver into that poetic grin that seems to say : 

" There, but for God's mercy, goes O Le Langi ! " 

• •••••• 

As some may think I have overestimated the comeli- 
ness and mentality of the majority of the old-time 
Samoans, I would like to give other opinions than my 
own on the subject before finishing this chapter. First 
of all, I would mention that all observant, able authori- 
ties who have travelled, and written about the South 
Seas, have remarked upon the fine physique and general 
attractiveness of the Polynesian races. In my profes- 
sion, and I was bandmaster of the king's bodyguard 
band in Hawaii, in Tahiti, and again in Mexico, etc., I 
had many opportunities of hearing the opinions of the 
various representatives of the Missionary Societies, and 
they were very often men of refined tastes, and so com- 
petent to judge. These men all seemed to share my 



228 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

opinion with respect to the manliness and refinement 
of the Samoans. Of course, a difference of opinion 
is bound to exist, for, to be sure, there is a class of men 
who, by an inherent obliquity of mental vision, see all the 
coloured races as something semi-bestial and unworthy 
of a white man's interest and sympathy. 

I once had the pleasure of arriving in Apia with 
Monsieur Bassaire, a well-known French artist. I viv- 
idly recall his astonishment and admiration when he 
first saw the Samoans who came on deck to welcome 
us when we arrived off Mulinuu. Nor was Bassaire's 
surprise to be wondered at, for the handsome, sun- 
bronzed, herculean figures of the Samoan men were 
shown off to tremendous advantage as they stood on 
deck amongst the slop-shouldered, thick-necked German 
crew. Bassaire, who had travelled in New Guinea in 
1879 with James Chalmers, the God-fearing, adventurous 
missionary,^ was touring the world, and was taking 
sketches of the various races of mankind. I know that 
he was pleased with his artistic work in Samoa. Bassaire 
was introduced to Robert Louis Stevenson, and it was 
whilst they were in each other's company that I heard 
R.L.S. comment on the clear complexions of the Samoans. 
We were in the photographer's studio in Apia, and 
Stevenson was examining some of the photographs. 
The photographer told us that, though hundreds of 
native girls and youths presented themselves at his 
studio in hopes that they would make photographs of 
commercial value for book illustrations and for selling 
to tourists, he was invariably able to choose only two, 
or three at most, who possessed the thick lips and sensual 
features that coincided with the stock European idea o! 

^ The author met James Chalmers in Apia and again at Port 
Moresby, New Guinea. Chalmers was a splendid type of the earnest 
missionary — manly, sincere, and brave, and a true Bohemian. He 
was murdered by New Guinea cannibals a few years ago. 



R. L. S. IN SAMOA 229 

the South Sea type. Indeed, when Stevenson glanced 
through the albums, he actually mistook some of the 
photographs of the Samoans, which were toned in a 
Hght shade, for Europeans. R.L.S. remarked that he 
considered that in some ways the Samoans were amongst 
the handsomest races to be found in the world. How- 
ever, they become slightly broad in the nose as they 
get older and the lips become sensual-looking; the skin, 
which in youth is of a golden hue, deepens to a tawny 
hue with age, the complexion becoming swarthy, some- 
thing akin to that of the Spanish, Italian, Southern 
French, and the darker types of British. Of course, 
these remarks refer to the true-blooded types of over 
twenty years ago. Through intermarriage with Mongo- 
lians, Negroes, Malays, Papuans, and low-caste British, 
the herculean Samoan is becoming a very rare individual 
indeed. The statue-like figure is becoming bent and 
dwarfed, the full, clear eyes crafty-looking. I know 
that the surviving children of the old race, who now 
roam those palm-clad slopes, struck me, on a later day, 
as a kind of human rainbow, some aftermath that sadly 
reflected the tropic suns, the light and laughter of other 
brighter days. For now one meets all kinds of com- 
plexion — yellowish, brownish, white-blotched, mauve, 
greenish, tawny, and black, and eyes as multitudinous in 
colour as their own tropic flowers. At times it is hard 
to tell the half-caste from the pure-blooded white man 
or woman. 

The last remark recalls to my mind a little incident 
that it may not be out of place to mention here. Robert 
Louis Stevenson heard that a white woman was residing 
near Matautu, Savaii Isle. He at once made up his 
mind to go and see this lady — a natural enough wish 
in those remote isles, " where white men will tramp 
miles to catch a ghmpse of a white woman." Well, 



230 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

R.L.S. hired a boat from a half-caste who was a store- 
keeper, and with whom I was staying at that time. 
And so it happened that I and the mate of a schooner 
had the pleasure of accompanying R.L.S. in the boat. 
After a long, very wearying row from Manono, for it 
was a terrifically hot day, we arrived off the coast of 
Savaii. Even then we had to go ashore and tramp 
over two miles before we could reach the bungalow 
where the white lady resided. When we did arrive, 
Stevenson was nearly " dead-beat," and struck me as 
irritated and fatigued. It was with much relief that 
the three of us at length passed under the shade of 
the mango-trees that sheltered the approach to the bun- 
galow. 

" Whereas the white lady ? '' said Stevenson, speaking 
in rather a sharp manner to a tawny-looking female 
who wore a small dark moustache and happened to be 
looking out of the bungalow's doorway. To our aston- 
ishment the woman screwed her mouth up and shrieked 
out: 

" What white lady ? — damn yer eyes ! " 

Stevenson's consternation and my own can be better 
imagined than described, when I say that the sun-tanned, 
brown-skinned, vulgar-looking woman who addressed us 
was the beautiful white lady herself! And, if I may 
say so, she was a good specimen of the white lady to 
be found in the South Seas in those days. 

**'Ave a beer, old party?" she said to R.L.S., who 
had astutely apologized and cursed the hot sunlight that, 
shining in his eyes, had made him so colour-blind. 

Stevenson's tact, after that grievous mistake, had a 
magical effect on the manners of our countrywoman. 
She fastened a flower on R.L.S. 's coat. 

" Say when ! " she said to the mate, as she clutched 
the gin bottle, holding it high as she filled the glass. 



R. L. S. IN SAMOA 231 

Then she smacked me on the back, and filled with 
beer a huge receptacle that looked like one of those 
fancy glasses wherein one keeps goldfish. I think Steven- 
son had whisky. I know he enjoyed the situation. The 
lady made eyes at R.L.S. and the mate too. She swore 
and behaved with the convivial vulgarity that is the 
sole prerogative of the low-caste British woman. I know 
that the Samoan servant-maid blushed as her mistress 
complained of the '* 'orrible 'eat," and pulled her dress 
down below her Camberwell-South-East bosom. Who 
she was, why she was there alone in that bungalow, only 
God knows. I recall that she nudged Stevenson in the 
ribs and said she came from " Camberwool Sarth-East." 
She swore at everything in Samoa, and said that she 
never went " art of a night because she knew the blasted 
natives were cannyballs ! " Stevenson's face during all 
this was a perfect study in self-control and amused polite- 
ness; and nothing off the stage could possibly outrival his 
simulated interest and his convivial ejaculation of '' Well 
now ! " as she finished each breezy yarn and ribald joke. 

The mate was a London man. 

" Do you remember the ' Pig and Whistle ' ? " she 
screamed, as she plunged into reminiscent talk about the 
" old homeland," smacked the mate on the shoulder, 
and pinched my leg! She insisted on filling our glasses 
again and again. She commenced to sing. Her wild, 
silvery laughter rippled about our ears, mesmerized us 
all, and made the roosting parakeets in the orange- 
trees outside rise, flutter and shriek with fright. 
Stevenson was the first to attempt to withdraw from 
that little realistic drama of life in a South Sea bungalow. 
His aesthetic, intellectual-looking face became shadowed 
with a fierce determination as the wild familiarities of 
the woman asserted themselves. He bowed with urbane 
politeness as he rose from the table. 



232 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

'' Git the gentleman's 'at, yer little brown-skinned 
slut ! " she yelled. 

In a moment the trembling Polynesian maid made a 
dive for Stevenson's old peaked cap. Stevenson was 
still expressing in his politest terms the pleasure he felt 
at meeting the lady in the island. 

** Stow it, yer son of a gun ! No politeness 'ere ! You 
know where to find me, and don't forget me when yer 
comes this way ! " she said, as we passed through the 
doorway. 

Stevenson nearly fell down her bungalow's five steps 
as she yelled forth a volley of ribald farewells. The 
relief of that parting was very evident on Stevenson's 
face. He chuckled like a schoolboy when we had em- 
barked and were all rowing our hardest, far away, safe 
out at sea. 

But to return to O Le Langi. Many of the old-time 
chiefs of Langi's type were faithful to their old creeds 
in many ways, and lived just as they had done in the 
heathen days. Indeed, Langi lived as though white men 
had never trod on his isles. He was deeply imbued 
with the old commercial spirit. Like the mediaeval mer- 
chants of Cathay who travelled far with their scented 
merchandise, Langi would go wandering from village 
to village and isle to isle. True enough, he did not 
travel with a camel across mighty deserts, but was his 
own caravan; for he carried, by the aid o fa large cala- 
bash slung over his own hump, not sandalwood, topazes, 
diamonds, and opals for mummies' eyes, but set off 
with pink shells, corals, tappa-cloth, and magic charms 
that had been warmed by the soft bosoms of mighty 
queens on their wedding-nights. These charms were 
small precious stones that he ran through his fingers 
whilst mumbling his pagan prayers. 

" What may they be, those little shining stones, O 



R. L. S. IN SAMOA 233 

mighty O Le Langi?" said I one night, as he trickled 
the gems through his fingers and gazed in a most 
mysterious way on the stars. He then informed me 
that they were the old magic jewels of the ancient 
Samoan dynasty, and their value was beyond all price. 
It turned out that they had once been threaded on the 
skeins of a maiden's hair so that they might be warmed 
on the virgin bosom of her whom a king was about to 
take to wife. It appeared that on the eve of the wedding 
the royal bride slept with the stones warm on her bosom, 
and that the warmth imparted to them was the sapphire 
and ruby light which shone in their depths as Langi 
ran them through his fingers. 

One may wonder how O Le Langi obtained possession 
of the magic Cnown jewels of the old Samoan dynasty; 
but he was a true scribe and, possibly, knew the ropes. 
Even in my time, kings and queens were not too severe 
in Court etiquette. Here I will simply say that, through 
possessing a bottle of the best Holland gin, I have 
received the highest Court honours from South Sea 
Royalty. Indeed, I was once offered a princess's hand 
in marriage, as well as being presented with the ** freedom 
of the pagan city," because the half-blind old king (in 
the Paumotou group) had been told by his head chief 
that I had a flask of the best Jamaica rum in my coat 
pocket. I seldom visited South Sea Royalty without a 
bottle of gin on my person. 

Langi never tired of expatiating on the beauty of the 
Samoan and Marquesan maidens of his youth. He 
would lift his chin to the sky, and curse the day when 
the maids were forced by the missionaries to wear the 
Europeans' cast-off clothing. 

"Ugh! O Papalagi of the spirit-finger, we no do 
cover the flowers with stink-cloth and so hide the loveli- 
ness of their leaves; then why, I say, should new-time 



234 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

fool-men cover nicer girls, women, and mans down to 
feets?" 

So raved O Le Langi, as I sympathetically muttered : 
" True ! true, O mighty Langi ! " 

But it must be admitted that the long pink and blue- 
striped night-gown-like attire of the maids suited them 
admirably. It was a pretty sight to see a flock of native 
girls running along the shore sands, delighting in the 
windy dishevelment, as they stooped and clutched the 
gowns that were lifted from their ankles as the warm, 
seductive winds blew in. And it must be confessed 
that many maids who delighted in brown stockings 
would sit out on the shore reefs purposely to court the 
flirtations of the winds as the handsome native youths 
passed by. 

Though I have recorded the aforesaid incidents, they 
appear trivial enough when I think of the wonders of 
pagan life and the poetic mystery of a South Sea forest 
that flashes on the inward eye. I myself have more 
than once completely lost my civilized individuality and 
become part of the South Sea forest scene. I remember 
that O Le Langi once took me away to a secret witch- 
hut in the forest near Mootua. Sunset had already 
thrown the silent wooded depths into deep shadow when 
Langi, who was creeping along just ahead of me, heard 
a suspicious noise, and suddenly stood perfectly still : 
his tattooed wrinkled form had become a part of the 
forest! his arms instinctively bent, twisted at the 
elbows, represented two short, broken branch stumps. 
Lo! he was no longer O Le Langi, but was a gnarled 
spotted tree-trunk with blinkless eyes and carved to 
resemble man, apparently lifeless, as he stood wuth ears 
alert among the aged banyan stems? Well, just as 
Langi's primitive instincts came to his assistance and 
made him unrecognizable, I too have become a part of 



R. L. S. IN SAMOA 235 

the forest. I do not say that I have turned into a human 
tree-stump; but I have stood alone in the silent depths 
and felt my inner life become one with the old trees 
around me. It was as though my conscious life was 
splashed in spiritual colours over the leaves. I felt some 
old sense exude from my being, like warm blood, and 
dye the forest depth with the sunset's golden glory and 
poetic mystery that lay hushed on the branched luxuriant 
tropical growth about me. 

Of O Le Langi's musical ability I can say but little. 
It would require a genius to describe the universal music 
of his gifts. He was a true primitive literary man and, 
therefore, like most true literary men, was a musician in 
the deeper meaning of that word. Langi could hear the 
grandeur of Creation's harmony and that still, small 
voice of humanity that cannot possibly express itself by 
fiddling on catgut or blowing on brass. I can only say 
that Langi wrote a great symphony that my memory has 
vainly striven to play in these after years. The memory 
of his face and deep-set, poetic eyes seems to me as of 
some weird, conscious embodiment of all the sublimity 
of the rugged mountains and sunlit palms, the unheard 
harmonies of the moon-ridden seas and lagoons from 
Samoa to the Solomons, and again from Fiji to Tahiti 
and the far-off Poutomous. Those old forests are, to 
me, O Le Langi's now dead w^hitening bones, where 
through the warm sea-winds whistle wonderful legends 
that his tongue once uttered forth. 

It was years after that I went to Apia again and stood 
by his grave. It is situated by Safata village. I noticed 
that they had placed a w^ooden cross over the spot, and 
on it was written: 

" Here lies O Le Langi. 

Died Feb. 14, 1908." 

" Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." 



236 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

He had undoubtedly been buried by the residential 
ecclesiastics; and the spiritual text chosen by them for 
his memorial cross showed, to me at least, that mission- 
aries often speak great truths about dead men. 

• •••••• 

I had it in my mind to finish this chapter with a critical 
discourse on native and European styles of music; but 
I feel that I am not able to do the subject justice. I am 
too liable to be influenced by the maze of melodies that 
are always playing in the great invincible orchestral 
world of my memory. There are some, too, who would 
consider my taste for music decidedly vulgar. Indeed, 
one night, whilst stopping at an old inn on my north- 
west travels, I heard a barrel-organ being played outside 
on the main country road. Looking out of the window, 
I saw a melancholy-visaged, white-whiskered, weird-look- 
ing foreigner turning the handle of a derelict barrel- 
organ that stood on one leg. It was an old melody 
that it played, a ballad that I had been familiar with 
in my childhood. Its dismal groan thrilled my soul. 
It took me across the years! I heard the laughter of 
my brothers and sisters and the forgotten strummings 
of the old piano. The old inn was transmuted — it stood 
on the grey night-hills of another age. I peeped through 
the window-blind and saw that weird old organ-grinder, 
just visible by the mingy gleam of the one lamp-post's 
flickering light. He had a strange look about him. He 
wore a most suitable slouched hat, too! He seemed to 
me some ambassador of Fate who had been sent out of 
the night to appeal to my soul. I fancied that the stars 
and the moon went round as he turned that handle. 
"Play on! Play on!" I gasped mentally; and so the 
vision of sight and sound continued, yes, as I listened 
to the grand opera of my existence. The semi-sad, half- 
gay ballad that he played touched my heart-strings; the 



R. L. S. IN SAMOA 237 

stars waved bright hands, dead laughter and beautiful, 
half-forgotten voices of long ago murmured to the wsliU 
ing accompaniment of the poplar-trees that surely sighed 
over old memories just across the road. I even saw 
the ghost of the little, curly-headed Italian troubadour 
girl creep into our old front garden again, and once 
more commence to play '' Santa Lucia " on her accordion. 
What maestro ever played as soul fully as she played 
for my ears? — Her voice? Oh, music inexpressibly 
beautiful! Ah, the cleverness of that surreptitious 
special smile for me, as she peered sideways through 
her thrush-brown tresses up at our castle window! I 
thought of my passion for her, of my betrothal to that 
pretty, red-rose-lipped vagabondess of the south when I 
was ten years old; of my austere father's wrath when 
our plans for the elopement were discovered, of my 
mother's horror — and of my shame! Alas! Let men 
and women go to the grand opera, let the mighty 
cathedral organs of the world thunder and moan till 
their hearts are touched; but oh, give me a one-legged 
barrel-organ under the poplar trees outside the window 
of some old inn — playing " Santa Lucia" after dark! 



CHAPTER XII. A MOHAMMEDAN BANQUET 

A Child of American Democracy — Rajah Barab — Bar- 
barossa — Brown-Slave traffic Methods — Motavia's Grave 
— The Magic Casement — The Splendour of Rose-coloured 
Spectacles — Mohammedanistic Desires — Giovanni's Love 
Affairs — Exit Barab. 

I WAS more than pleased to make the acquaintance 
of Giovonni as I wandered about Apia. This new- 
found comrade was a clever artist on the guitar, and our 
kindred tastes and mutual cashlessness was the direct 
cause of our forming a trio for troubadour purposes. 
To our great satisfaction, we came across another who 
was in a hard-up state : he was a derelict Yankee sailor- 
man, and he told us he had been an operatic singer in 
his youth. Whether he strayed from the truth in swear- 
ing that he had charmed select audiences by his vocal 
accomplishments, I cannot say. I do know that, when 
he sang, his peculiar twang and extraordinary facial 
contortions at our wandering concerts amply made up 
for the disinteresting drone of his wheezy voice. He 
accompanied Giovanni and myself on our wanderings 
for many miles, as we visited Savaii Isle and the old 
townships, Palaulae, Asaua, Matautu, Safune, Monono, 
also Sufatea, and all the important native villages. 
Our Yankee comrade's swashbuckling deportment at our 
numerous engagements at the high-class native fale-po-ula 
(court dance houses) caused Giovanni and myself a good 
deal of embarrassment. The fact is that his facial con- 
tortions and voice seemed to appeal especially to the 
seasoned shellbacks and traders who congregated outside 

238 



A MOHAMMEDAN BANQUET 239 

the grog-shanties as we stood beneath the palms and sang 
and played on our instruments. And if it is a compU- 
mentary sign to have had a large bouquet in the shape of a 
putrid crab put into the collecting calabash-dish at our 
great mixed concert-festival down at Apia, then, all I 
can say is that the melee that followed the aforesaid 
donation was a decided success. Anyhow, Billy-goat 
whiskers, for so we called him, was not to blame. He 
was the natural child of a vast Republic that has no 
historical, dynastic background such as the Samoans 
and most of the South Sea races can claim in their 
history. Consequently Billy-goat whiskers had based all 
his ideas and ideals on the tinker-president-everyman- 
as-good-as-another creed, and he was a fine specimen of 
the Yankee swanker. The American is unborn who 
could imitate the splendid bearing that distinguishes a 
Fijian or Samoan chief. Most of the savage races have 
a splendid historical and legendary background that has 
influenced their actions from earliest childhood, much 
the same as French boys are influenced by the elegant 
bearing and gallant manners of the characters in their 
country's historical novels, such as Dumas' works, etc. 
And so our Yankee's apparently vulgar ways were only 
the perfectly natural expression of a great democracy 
that has grown out of the soul of the people. But our 
pal was a brave, right down good fellow. His one fault 
was rum and gin. He carried his rum-flask, beard-comb, 
and pack of cards in a large handkerchief that was 
emblazoned with the stars and stripes. Fie had short, 
supple legs, and could suck his big toe like a baby. I can 
swear to that peculiarity of his, for when he had a touch 
of the D.T.'s he sat up in bed the whole night long and 
made a most irritating noise while using his big toe as 
a dummy in lieu of whisky. But, withal, it is not my 
intention to write about our Yankee comrade. I will 



240 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

just finish him off by saying that it was he who intro- 
duced us to Rajah Barab the Mohammedan. Rajah 
Barab was a Malayo-Indian. He had once lived in 
German New Guinea, but for sound reasons had 
hastily migrated to Samoa. He lived just outside 
Apia. 

Though this Mohammedan's dwelling looked like some 
three-roomed cow-shed, it was really the deserted an- 
cestral hall of the great chief O Le Sula Motavia, a 
heathen divine who had had his skull blown off in the 
tribal war of 1885. This dwelling was situated about 
two miles south-west, on the slopes of Vaea and not so 
far from Robert Louis Stevenson's old home, Vailima. 
And while O Le Sula Motavia slept on in his cold bed 
within eight yards of his ancestral front-door, with the 
large orange tree spread above, and the blue jungle 
flowers blowing over him, Rajah Barab, the sinful 
Mohammedan, sat in Motavia's old halls drinking deeply, 
as warm-eyed native girls danced and sang before him. 
Now this old heathen's homestead had not been turned 
exactly into a tamhu-house after the New Guinea style, 
for Barab had no idols within. But, to make up for 
those wooden images that were usually carved so as to 
express a heathen's ideas of Venus and jovial Bacchus, 
Barab himself would stand erect so that the native 
maidens could worship the light of his living eyes and 
kneel in complete obeisance at his sandalled feet. He 
made a fine idol. He was a tall, broad-shouldered sinner. 
He wore a richly-coloured turban and waist-swathing 
which he well knew pleased the eyes of romantic Samoan 
girls. Perhaps his chief adornment was his long iron- 
grey beard. He swore by it and pulled it thoughtfully 
when he appeared to meditate over his infinite wisdom. 
And when he squatted half-erect on his fibre mat before 
the admiring, awestruck maids, his eyes had a far-away 



A MOHAMMEDAN BANQUET 241 

gaze in them that seemed to have kinship with the vers 
libre and the poetic grin that enshrined his ugly mug. I 
say " mug " because it resembled the rim of a mug, and 
did not look like a human mouth at all. And / should 
know, because I was a witness of his far-away-looking 
gaze and poetic grin, for I dined with him. Truth to tell, 
Rajah Barab had plenty of cash, and so Giovanni and 
myself, both in a cashless state, were compelled to accept 
the liberal fee which he offered us should we perform on 
our instruments at one of his special Mohammedan fes- 
tivals. Our Yankee friend was down with the delirium 
tremens at Apia at the time. It w^as unfortunate, because 
I know that he would have been a great help to us that 
night. 

When Giovanni and I arrived at the festival in ques- 
tion there were several young Indian bloods present 
amongst the visitors. It was a select gathering, inas- 
much as Barab had invited only those whose sensual 
desires were akin to his own. The moon was well up, 
and not only were the palms visible around his tambu- 
temple, but also the native maids who danced beneath 
them. Ava and gin were plentiful. Barab stood under 
the large palm-tree, pulling his revered beard and swear- 
ing by his Malayan gods and Allah as he watched the 
scene. As Giovanni rippled pizzicatos from his guitar 
and I played my violin, we watched the scene with 
intense interest. There was something phantom-like 
about the whole business as the girls danced amongst 
the gnarled pillars of that primitive forest-hall of giant 
trees. The native girls, who had stolen away from the 
solicitude of the missionaries, gave muffled screams of 
delight and did such high kicks that the coco-nut-oil 
lamps swayed violently. I might say that these lamps 
hung from the palm branches that were immediately 
over the dancers' heads. One maid was decidedly 



242 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

attractive. Her name was Barbarossa. She was taste- 
fully arrayed in some diaphanous material that reached 
down to her ankles. Flowers bedecked her thick, wavy 
hair that rolled loose over her neck and shoulders. 
Moonlight somehow intensified the musical rhythm and 
charm of her form, as she swerved in many semi-bar- 
barian postures. While all this was going on, Barab 
squatted on his old coco-nut-fibre mat, his body erect. 
His pose was that of an Indian seer, and the chant that 
he mumbled added to the peculiar weirdness of the 
scene. Even the low-caste Samoans, who stood aside 
watching the performance, called out, " Talofa ! Talofa ! " 
demanding an encore when Barbarossa finished her 
dance. As soon as the dance was over, someone banged 
a drum, and that barbarian thump seemed to echo in 
my heart and made me drop my fiddle, so startled was 
I. For though my kind ancestors handed down to me 
a pair of rose-coloured spectacles so that I might see 
life as they saw it, they also presented me with a nervous 
temperament; consequently anything of a sudden surprise 
is peculiarly hateful to me. This inherited nerve of mine 
was possibly the cause of my accepting the drink of gin 
and lime-juice that Barab so artfully offered to Giovanni 
and myself as we sat that night at the festival board of 
his tambu-harem. Giovanni sat beside Barbarossa, and 
I sat right opposite them. I was wedged in by Barab on 
one side of me and a Malay Chinaman on the other side. 
I confess here that I felt the degradation of my position, 
and can assume from that fact that I must have been 
perfectly sober. It was a low, long table lit up by a host 
of small hanging-lamps that were suspended from the 
wooden ceiling by threads from sennit string. I remem- 
ber that the girls, who sat along each side, were all more 
or less in a maudlin condition as the fumes of the gin and 
" ava '* rose to their weak, feminine brains. My mem- 



A MOHAMMEDAN BANQUET 243 

ory is a brilliant one ! I distinctly recall the wonder and 
feverish look that shone in their dark eyes as the glasses 
clinked, when Barab and the few remaining young bloods 
of his kidney roared forth toasts to their beauty. I even 
remember the smell of the Chinaman who sat next to 
me. You can always smell a Chinaman; it is a peculiar 
odour that suggests something between orange-pekoe 
and chloroform, and is not absolutely offensive unless 
you happen to be chewing delicate food when he is by. 
As the maids drank on, Barab grew extremely excited, 
and banged his fists on the low table in some wild delight 
of anticipation. Poor Giovanni had fallen madly in 
love with Barbarossa. The fact was only too evident 
by all that he did. True enough, Barbarossa was the 
queen of the evening. As she sat there at the table, her 
eyes ashine and her loosened tresses stirred by the 
scented wnnds that blew through the open doorway, 
she looked out of place amongst the other thick-lipped, 
sensual-looking girls. It was very evident, by the look 
in Barab's eyes, that he regarded her as the piece de 
resistance of that festival meeting. However, Giovanni 
was handsome and Barab's chances were small. Giovanni 
was evidently not letting the grass grow under his feet. 
I shall simply state that he behaved like the true Italian 
cavalier that he was, and that I more than once lifted 
my glass and drank secretly to my pal's success in his 
romantic courtship. I felt a bit muddled, it was all so 
unexpected and sudden. At that time I was not aware 
that Barab's festival programme was to get the girls 
quite drunk and then close and tightly bolt the door of 
his tambu-house. I really thought that he had taken 
a violent fancy to Barbarossa and intended to offer her 
his swarthy hand in marriage according to the Malay 
Mohammedan rites. I must admit that I was not at 
all aware of the Malay Mohammedan marriage rite 



2U SOUTH SEA FOAM 

procedure when one of the sect took a fancy to a certain 
maid. I know that Barbarossa was an innocent girl. 
I discovered afterwards that she had been enticed to 
attend that festival by a dissolute native missionary 
who had accepted a large bribe from Barab. Just as 
there are dissolute houses in European cities, where men 
indulge in the white-slave traffic, so were there estab- 
lishments for trafficking purposes in Samoa, and Barab's 
house was one of them. When Giovanni and I saw 
through the drift of the whole vile business, we deter- 
mined that pretty Barbarossa should not fall into Barab's 
clutches if we could help her. We both knew that Barab 
had a bad reputation; and, though he was our host and 
had paid us well, our self-respect should have prevented 
us from accepting his money. But it must be confessed 
here that Giovanni and I were not to be numbered 
amongst those virtuous folk who would rather die than 
sell their honour. Alas, many and many a time I w^ould 
much rather have sold my honour than nearly died ! 
The best of men have their weaknesses. I know that 
even that dear old tattooed clergyman, O Le Langi, had 
often fallen before the lure of a few half-crowns when 
victuals were scarce. 

As soon as the festival itself was finished, Giovanni 
and I stole outside the tambu-house and talked the 
matter over. In a very little time we had decided to 
secure Barbarossa's person by force sooner than she 
should fall into Barab's hands. 

" Ah, comrado, he cursed una vipera ! " said my Italian 
chum. Then he looked at me sadly and said : " Will you 
stick to me, and mine friend be ? " 

" I will ! " I responded most emphatically. Giovanni 
was a big lump of a fellow and had courage written in 
the light of his magnificent eyes; also, the idea of 
rescuing Barbarossa from her peril suited my tempera- 



A MOHAMMEDAlSr BANQUET 245 

ment exactly. We counted out the cash that Barab 
had given us directly the feast was over, then we looked 
significantly at each other, for he had paid us several 
marks more than were due to us. " He wants to get 
rid of us at once, no doubt of that,'* was my reflection, 
as I looked at Giovanni's handsome face and then on 
the moonlit solitude of the mountain slopes around dead 
Motavia's old homestead. Then we walked back, 
treading very softly through the jungle as we approached 
the tambu shed. Already the small lamp-lights on the 
palms and within those wooden walls were burning low. 
We listened, and heard the low wail of some Malayan 
chanty ; then the drunken song ceased. 

"What's that?" whispered Giovanni. The door had 
suddenly opened, and we saw two of the young bloods 
departing. Off they went, with three drunken native 
girls staggering between them. So brilliant was the 
light of the moon that we distinctly observed the girls' 
faces as they tossed their legs and shook the brass arm- 
lets, and kissed the shoulders of the men who were 
leading them away. As soon as the men were out of 
sight we listened again. All was quiet; it was evident 
that most of the girls who remained within the tambu 
had fallen off into drunken slumber. Barbarossa had 
sung her swan-song (so thought Rajah Barab). We 
heard a click; the Rajah had closed the door and bolted 
it! That much we discovered as we crept around the 
walls of that den and endeavoured to see what was go- 
ing on within. 

"Wait a bit!" said Giovanni, as we suddenly heard 
someone commence to drone out a weird heathen 
melody. It was a girl's voice. Then all was silent 
again. We both knew that Barab would soon be drunk 
and in a suitable condition for our immediate desires, 
and so we strolled up and down under the palms. Then 



246 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

we heard the Le mao commence to sing somewhere 
up in the lime trees. 

" It's pretty silent now; that bird wouldn't sing if 
there were any suspicious noises about," said I. 

" Yes, comrade, 'tis so," whispered Giovanni, push- 
ing his curls off his forehead and puffing his cigarette. 
I noticed that his lips were tightly set as he swung his 
huge, knotted stick to and fro and gave swift glances 
towards the dark- walled homestead before us. Then 
we slowly crept towards the den again. The brilliant 
moonlight lit up the thatched roof and sent a ghostly 
glimmering all along the front of the bamboo verandah. 
I was standing just over old chief Motavia*s grave; 
the moonbeams were softly falling through the branches 
of the orange tree and had spread a silver radiance on 
my feet, which stood close to the wooden cross that said : 
" Here lies the brave chief, O Le Sula Motavia." I felt 
sad to think how soundly dead men slept. I knew how 
handy that chief would have been to us that night, how 
gladly he would have jumped from his slumber to help 
us to repel the base intruder from his old homestead. 

" Come on ! " I whispered to Giovanni, as we brushed 
the ferns aside and stole softly towards the single window 
of the den. In a moment we were both eagerly peering 
through the lattice-work of the wide, low window-hole. 
It was a true South Sea magic casement that opened on 
the feathery foam of palms, leafy tamanu, and masa' oi 
trees which grew right up to the mountain slopes. There 
was something fairy-like but tragic in the silent moon- 
lit scene outside that window. But the most wonderful 
sight to be seen through the casement was the scene 
before our eyes as we both stared between the twisted 
wicker-work and saw behind the shutter into the gloom 
of that room. There sat Rajah Barab, quite visible by 
the dim light of the hanging roof oil-lamp. He was so 



A MOHAMMEDAN BANQUET 247 

drunk that he could hardly stoop forward to pull off his 
sandals. Two of the young bloods still remained, but, 
to our relief, we noticed that they were prone, quite 
drunk. Pretty Barbarossa, Maroa, Nine, Singa Saloo, 
Fae moa Oi, and Winga, the native missionary's daugh- 
ter — and who was not a day older than fourteen years — 
lay on the mats in deep slumber. I know that my heart 
echoed the sigh that Giovanni gave, as, with eyes glued 
to the casement, we gazed in mute astonishment. There 
lay the victims of the Mohammedan's gold, vers libres, 
and hyprocrisy. No sign of vice was expressed on the 
girls' faces as they lay there, their bodies half-couched in 
the flood of moonlight that fell across the corner of the 
room. The sham jewellery that had evidently tempted 
them was distinctly visible — bangles on their legs, arm- 
lets on their arms. Two or three had silk handkerchiefs 
of brilliant colours about their throats, the ends tied 
bow-wise, native-fashion, in the folds of their much- 
disordered hair. The heat was terrific. A few fireflies 
had entered the room. We distinctly saw them gleam 
and flash as they danced like miniature starry con- 
stellations over the prone forms of the girls. In the 
helpless abandonment of their drink-enforced slumber, 
their limbs were thrown about in the various attitudes 
of restless sleep. Three of the girls lay with their arms 
half-entwined, as though in some swift realization and 
fright over their position they had clung to each other 
ere they fell and lost consciousness. " Cara, bellissima ! " 
Giovanni breathed forth as he gazed on Barbarossa's 
slumbering abandonment. Her pretty blue robe was dis- 
arranged, revealing the curves of one tiny ankle; her 
olive-hued heel was visible too, for the ribbon had be- 
come loose, the tiny sandal had fallen half off. 

"Mia bella! mia bellissima!" whispered Giovanni, as 
he gazed in romantic rapture on her form. " Yes, she 



248 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

must be saved," I said, as Giovanni murmured on in his 
musical, impassioned language, saying things that needed 
no translation for my sympathetic ears and eyes! No 
shame have I in writing down these things for the eyes 
of whoever may wish to read. I think, if anything, 
that my thoughts were less creditable than Giovanni's. 
My Italian comrade was in love, but where was the 
excuse for my own impassioned glance? Why should 
the curves of an ankle haunt my dreams for days? 
But let it pass. There are many who may understand 
and forgive. A maiden's ankle, a tress of hair, a side 
glance from lustrous eyes, a ribbon round a throat, have 
turned the good thoughts of many a man from the im- 
mediate matter in hand. Just beside the large calabash 
and overturned pickle barrel lay Barbarossa's boon friend, 
Mademoiselle Singa Saloo ; and the helpless abandonment 
of her sensuous beauty expressed a fascinating twinship 
with all that Barbarossa's enforced recumbency revealed. 
It seemed that even the moon would abet the inquisi- 
tiveness of our curious eyes, for its light streamed 
through the chinks of the bolted door and so revealed 
the dusky beauty of the girls' faces. The cool night 
winds swept down the mountain slopes, stirred the palms 
that silently threw their shadows over the wooden walls 
and along the floor where Barab's huddled victims lay. 
Lying there, victims of Barab's peculiar desires, they 
looked like big sleeping babies. One had her arm out- 
stretched as though she knew the limpness of death, 
while the other hand pillowed her head. Only the faint 
flutter of her delicate blue throat-kerchief, following 
the regular intervals of her breathing, told that life 
existed. 

Barab had risen to his feet. His eyes shone with some 
terrible light as he gazed on the helpless girls. *' By 
the gods of Olympus ! " blurted out Giovanni as a puff 



A MOHAMMEDAN BANQUET 249 

of wind blew his hat off. The Mohammedan had lifted 
a goblet of liquor to his lips. We saw him sway vio- 
lently as he drank. "He's half-seas-over!" was my 
joyful comment. He had drawn himself erect and had 
passed his hand across his brow as though he would 
muster up his drowsy senses. Suddenly one of the girls 
in the farther corner lifted her head and looked about 
her with vacant eyes. She lifted one hand and swayed 
it as though she were dreaming that she conducted some 
musical chant in her native village. She staggered to 
her feet. Giovanni and I watched, breathless, in our 
excitement and intense curiosity. What was she going 
to do ? Had she in that moment realized the degradation 
of her position, and would she attempt to escape? Our 
very breath frightened us as it stirred the slender vine 
leaves that clustered there by our open mouths and eyes 
as we stared through the casement. The girl was stag- 
gering across the room, making for Barab. He stood 
erect, his turban askew, one swarthy hand holding his 
beard as if he had the impertinence to pose for the 
occasion. We saw the girFs bare feet slip on the wooden 
floor as she lurched to his side and gave him a drunken 
leer ! ** Well now ! " was our only comment, as she 
tossed her left leg till the brass bangles that encircled her 
limbs jingled ! 

" Oh, handsome Mohamy clergyman ! " she babbled. 

" Phew ! " was our simultaneous ejaculation, when she 
lifted her face and kissed Barab's shoulder! Such a 
look in a man's eyes I had never seen before. The girl 
had embraced him, her head was nursed in the folds of 
his beard. She had commenced to sing some weird 
heathen melody or chant, the chorus of the strain she 
had doubtless been singing ere she lost consciousness. 
There was something indescribably weird in the sounds 
of her muffled voice as she still sang on, her mouth buried 



250 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

deep in the bushy growth of that Islamic beard ! Barab 
seized her and was about to lead her from the room into 
the inner chamber wherein Giovanni and I had not been 
invited to enter. 

" Now's the time ! Come on ! " said I, as Giovanni 
nudged me in the ribs to intimate that he had success- 
fully placed his arm through the window-hole and pulled 
the door-bolt back ! Crash ! The door opened and swung 
violently to and fro, so fierce had been my thrust as 
I threw my whole weight against it. In a moment Barab 
let the girl drop to the ground and turned towards us. 
The muscles stood out on his swelling throat like whip- 
cord. He had whipped his kris from beneath his jer- 
kin. " Ilu tidak baik Tuan!" (this is not friendly of 
you), he roared, as we stood before him. Then he 
noticed the look in our eyes, and yelled ^' Totong! '* 
(help) at the top of his voice. Fast asleep in the corner 
of the room lay two young bloods, Malays. In a moment 
they had leapt to their feet. The immediate outlook 
was pretty dark for Giovanni and me. We possessed no 
firearms at all. In a moment I placed my rose-coloured 
spectacles on, so to speak, then, bang! it went. And the 
reader can rest assured that that Islamic cranium received 
such a thump that its scheming interior was out of action 
for some time. My violin case was broken, cracked 
down the whole length. I cared not. I carefully laid 
it down by the door in readiness for my coming hasty 
exit. Giovanni, who was taking no risks, lifted the 
wooden table and let it drop most artistically on to 
Barab's prostrate form. "Allow me!" said I, then I 
lifted the large calabash of pickle oil and dashed the 
whole thing in the face of the young blood who had come 
to tackle me. Then the left cheek of the other one 
received an Olympic punch from Giovanni. And then, as 
carefully as possible, I, according to the Scriptures, smote 



A MOHAMMEDAN BANQUET 251 

him on the right cheek as he turned towards me. By 
this time the native girls had staggered to their feet and 
were staring about them, rubbing their eyes as though 
they had risen in astonishment to the trump of the resur- 
rection. 

" Quick ! out with her ! " I said. 

In a moment Giovanni and I had grabbed Barbarossa 
by the arm. 

"Aue! Aue! seo, levu!'* she wailed, as she looked 
around her in wonder. 

But still we dragged her on by the arms. As I rushed 
back into the den to seize my violin, the large table was 
already being lifted towards the roof as the stricken 
Barab heaved his back up! He was rearing forth 
terrible oaths in Malayan lingo as I once more made 
a hurried exit. Barbarossa's dishevelled tresses were 
streaming to the caress of the night wind when I got 
outside. In a moment I had once more gripped her 
arm. Arriving at the top of the slope Giovanni shook 
her rather roughly. 

" Barbarossa, remember ! " he whispered. 

For a moment she stared vacantly at us, and then 
cried, " Aue ! Aue ! " and to my intense relief volun- 
tarily gripped our arms as we ran down the slopes. 
Barbarossa became our eager guide after that. And 
though it is years ago now, I can still hear the sounds 
of her feet pattering like falling rain over the dead leaves 
of the forest ferns as we follow her across the wild 
country to Mootuoa. Again Giovanni and I lift the 
coco-nut-shell goblets and drink a toast with the big 
tattooed chief who is Barbarossa's father. For Bar- 
barossa took us safely into her village that night. And 
when the old chiefs and their womenkind heard about 
Barab's sinful ways and of our blessed missionary work, 
they swore to club Barab, and cheered us exceedingly. 



252 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

But alas! I lost my dear chum Giovanni. For I com- 
posed and performed a special betrothal chant, pla3nng 
it at the festival that made Giovanni Barbarossa's legiti- 
mate tribal fiance. And was he faithful to the Samoan 
maid ? I know not. But, still, I do know that Giovanni 
was young and romantic. And I would not be surprised 
if, as the years rolled by Barbarossa was happy, and 
little children who could speak both Italian and Samoan 
romped about her knees. Fine children too, I should 
think, from such a splendid combination from the two 
romantic lands of the Sunny South. 

Such was my personal experience of the Samoan 
Brown-Slave Traffic. And I might say, it is an experi- 
ence that I have considerably toned down in the afore- 
said narrative. As I have already intimated, I have 
included this experience here only that my readers may 
have a view of both sides of native life, and realize 
that native girls and women are subject to the tempta- 
tions of sensualists much the same as their sisters in the 
large cities of the civilized world. And I would say 
that it is a pleasure for me to be able to record here 
that Barab's dwelling was razed to the ground by the 
wrathful chiefs of Barbarossa's village. True enough, it 
was really the last homestead of that brave old chief 

Le Matavia; but he was a good and holy heathen. 
And so one might well imagine that the flames of his 
corrupted ancestral halls gave cheerful warmth to his 
ghost and cold bones as he slept on under the orange- 
tree, just outside. 

And what became of Barab the Mohammedan? All 

1 can say is, the good work that Giovanni and I began 
was finished off by the missionaries. Barab was expelled 
from Samoa, and hastened seaward, doubtless to seek 
fresh converts for his creed in other lands. 



A MOHAMMEDAN BANQUET 253 

After losing Giovanni's welcome companionship, I felt 
very lonely, and so decided to go seaward again. Though 
I was not a sailor by profession, it was always an easy 
matter for me to get a ship. I think I had an ingratiating 
way with me when I approached the mates and skippers. 
And when I came across a skipper or mate with a face 
like cast-iron and eyes like a shark's, which I often 
did, I changed my tactics. For I approached hirrt with 
my violin in one hand and a bottle of the best Hollands 
in the other hand. I invariably found that, if music 
does not soothe the savage breast, Hollands gin comes 
pretty near the mark. Anyway, I got a berth and sailed 
before the mast outbound for old Tai-o-hae, Nuka Hiva. 
I had been to the Marquesas many times, but in the next 
chapter I shall tell a few incidents that I have not recorded 
before. 



CHAPTER XIII. AN OLD MARQUESAN QUEEN 

In Tai-o-hae — I come across a Widowed Marquesan 
Queen — Am received with Dignity — The Artistic Tattoo 
on Loi Vakamoa's Royal Person — The Queen tells how 
she was married to a certain Martin Smith of New South 
Wales — An aged Queen's Vanity — A Heathen Necropolis. 

The seas I've roamed, hypocrisy I hate: 

God grafted in my soul the fire of song. 

On life's dark hills I've wrestled, fought with Fate. 

Here in South Seas, still young, I jog along, 

'Neath strange stars dream as low the banyan bends 

O'er heathens singing by their huts — my friends! 

We call them heathens, well, 'tis habit most. 

King Mafeleto is my royal friend: 

His ancestors, 'tis true, did eat on toast 

Their mortal enemies, but Heaven defend 

That I should judge men by their long-past crimes — 

We White Men, too, have had some fine old times. 

They're chanting pagan songs by their hut-fires; 
At each full breast clings one sweet tiny mouth, 
Their busy babes, unsatisfied desires, 
Eyes sparkling starlight of the sea-nursed South! 
As down the forest track from hut to hut 
Pass natives, clad in half a coco-nut ! 

I RECALL the memory of a Marquesan royal person 
who stands out in my recollection with unusual vivid- 
ness. 

Whilst wandering, during one of my troubadouring 
expeditions north-west of Tai-o-hae, I came across a 
small, semi-pagan, tribal citadel of huts on the lower 
mountain slopes. It was a romantic and picturesque 

254 



AN OLD MARQUESAN QUEEN 255 

scene. The scattered bird-cage huts, made of twisted 
bamboo and nestling in the hollows, that were shaded 
by feathery palms, intensified the enchantment of the 
secluded forest empire. I know that the glad reception 
which I received from the whole population when I 
entered the high bamboo stockade gate, my two native 
boys ahead of me, was as impressive as it was pleasing 
to me. The two boys in question were Palao and Sango, 
neither of them more than ten years of age. But they 
were invaluable guides, considering the benefit their pro- 
tection afforded my unarmed person, for they were able 
to converse in the difficult Marquesan tongue, and could 
explain my wishes and friendly attributes. 

I was always careful in those days, and contrived 
that Palao and Sango should move ahead of me as my 
advance guard, thus leaving me in the immediate rear, 
ready for flight. The tribes about that part were sup- 
posed to be friendly, but my nerves were a bit unsettled 
through hearing that two sailors had been murdered in 
a tribal village ten miles to the eastward. Indeed, more 
than once I had been welcomed by the sudden appearance 
of fierce warriors with raised war-clubs and other strange 
implements of combat, which gave due notice that in- 
truders were not to call at that particular moment! 
Possibly a tribal battle had been on, and had ended in 
the demise of a young warrior or so, and consequently 
a happy cannibal festival was in progress. Hence, no 
admission to the tribal stronghold for white men unless 
they happened to call on the most secretive and intimate 
terms. 

Seeing only the smiling faces of chiefesses and chiefs 
welcoming me from the ambush of multi-coloured flowers 
by the lagoon mangroves, I saw that I had arrived at 
an opportune moment. " Aloah ! Alii, Papalagi ! '* came 
from the lips of the assembled natives as I placed my; 



256 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

violin to my chin and commenced to perform an old 
Marquesan huftiine. 

The effect was magical : out of the leafy shadows 
and the hut doorways rushed the whole population, so 
it seemed to me, their faces bright with delight. It was 
a sight worth travelling many miles to see : tawny, oval, 
elongated, scarred, serious, and handsome faces, with 
original-looking eyes of varied brilliance, stared at me. 
A few tattooed warriors, clad in lava-lava and palm-leaf 
head-gear, leaned against the coco-palm stems regard- 
ing me with fixed, cynical-looking eyes. I did not like 
the look of them at all, but they turned out to be harm- 
less enough. They were simply the old conservatives 
of heathen times, who instinctively resented the intrusion 
of white men into their sylvan demesne. Flocks of pretty 
boys and girls, of a pale walnut-polished hue, clambered 
at the picturesque ramias (native skirts) of their deep- 
bosomed mothers, gazing with half-frightened stare as 
my violin bow swept forth the wailing strains. I must 
have looked like some Pied Piper as I marched across 
the wide rara (village green), with Palao and Sango 
singing lustily, one on each side of me. That pagan 
mountain village w^as part of a true wonderland of the 
wine-dark seas. I am unable to describe the bright-eyed 
glances of those pretty Nausicaas and Circes who crept 
from the Elysium-like shadows of heathenland and stared 
at me as I passed by. Two stalwart chiefs, who were 
nibbling my present of tobacco plug, led the way; they 
were taking me straight to the palace building wherein 
dwelt their tribal queen. This palatial stronghold was 
constructed of coral stone and was surrounded by a wide 
verandah that was again sheltered by the beautiful 
pauroa and tamunu trees. Entering the palace, I found 
myself in a low-roofed apartment. On the walls hung 
the polished skulls of fallen warriors who had been 



AN OLD MARQUESAN QUEEN 257 

renowned for bravery in their da5^ Magnificently woven 
tappa-mats covered the polished floors and the barbarian 
furniture. I noticed two cases of gin and one empty 
rum barrel standing right in the centre of the apartment. 
They were given that conspicuous position, I believe, be- 
cause rum and gin denoted all that was immense wealth 
in the eyes of the Marquesan race. But what struck 
me as the most interesting piece of barbarian antiquity 
was the strange woman who presided over that palatial 
residence. She looked as old as her palm-clad native 
hills, and I discovered that she was one of the surviving 
queens of the many who had once reigned over the small 
dynasties of the Marquesan group. I had never seen her 
like before; her physiognomy was unique and decidedly 
pleasing-looking. She might easily have been some happy 
personification of Death itself as she sat there and 
saluted me : 

" Aloah! Papalagi, you wanter see me am?" 
" Oui ! Aloah Majesty Imperialess," I responded, as 
I made an effort and bowed the knee to her. I had 
visited Queen Vaekehu, who still reigned supreme in her 
old age down on the lower slopes by Calaboose Hill, and 
so I knew how to gain the appreciation of those heathen 
ex-Queens. Vaekehu was a masterpiece in the tattoo line, 
but I can assure you that ex-Queen Loi Vakamoa, 
for the sheer hieroglyphic-tattooed beauty that adorned 
her limbs and shoulders, could stand unrivalled through- 
out the North and South Pacific. 

After addressing me, she left her squattlng-mat just 
by her gin barrel, and majestically mounted what I im- 
agine was her throne (a lot of old sea-chests and gin- 
cases covered with tappa-cloth). I did my level best 
to make myself pleasant, played the violin, drank some 
bitter stuff, and took a keen interest in all she said. 
Sitting up there on her old box throne, her profile re- 



258 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

minded me of those old-fashioned engravings of Queen 
Elizabeth of England. The sensual curves, once so pro- 
nounced, had shrunk with her lips ; but the beak-like nose 
— tattooed with tiny semi-circles from the bridge down 
to the cheeks — gave her a somewhat melancholy aspect. 
The only perceptible determinedness of the face was the 
sharp outline of the nose, which somehow suggested that 
its owner would meet the accumulating calamities of age 
with commendable aggressiveness. Yet her demeanour 
was affable in the extreme. Never before had I beheld a 
face that so sadly expressed the aftermath of all that 
had been and at the same time told of a bitter for- 
lornness through senescence of frame and mind. The 
devious shruggings of her shoulders, the pathetic semi- 
amorous glances, and the many hints that she gave whilst 
striving to convince me of her once mighty Queenship 
and physical beauty, were positively painful to my mind. 
After giving me a goblet of whisky and lime-juice, which 
I must admit was refreshing, we seemed to become more 
confidential with each other. She took Palao by the 
arm and got him to tell her where he had met me, and 
much that I, of course, could not make out. By many 
direct hints she let me know that she had enjoyed a vast 
plurality of husbands. 

" I been wifer to many kinks! " she said.. 

Most of what she said was translated to me by Palao 
as I politely sipped the peculiar beverage that she herself 
handed me. I hardly knew which way to glance as she 
gabbled on and Palao translated and I listened. Sud- 
denly she acquainted me with the fact that she had been 
wedded more than twice to white men of distinction! 
She saw the look of surprise on my face. Perhaps she 
thought I doubted her, for she lifted the lid of a small 
sandal-wood box and brought forth a yellowish, very 
faded sheet of foolscap paper. 



AN OLD MARQUESAN QUEEN 259 

" Savvy, Papalagi ? '' she almost whimpered, as I read 
on. (And her eyes were shining with pride all the while.) 
And so I perused the following marriage lines : 

" This dokerment is to certify that Old Man 
Martin Smith of Woolloomooloo, New Sarth Wales, 
has from the dated day of this dokerment, 14th 
Feb. 1 86 1, become the lawful husband of Queen 
Loi Vakamoa of this yere Isles and several more 
isles to the sarthwards. The foresaid Queen agrees 
to hand over all her monies and prufits she gits 
from her copra plantations and howsomeever monies 
she gits hold on whilst the aforesaid John Martin 
Smith remains King. And it is agreed that John 
Smith can have a safe passage in the old ship's boat, 
free from any cursed interference by the late de- 
throned King Kai Le Tua Vakamoa and his b 

heathen chiefs at any such time as he wants to quit 
this yere Isles and his dominions and go back to his 
lawful Missus, Maltida Sarah Martin Smith of 
Kansas City, Merica. 

" Signed by Queen 

(Signature). 

" Old Man Martin Smith, Bridegroom and King. 

" Witness, — Jonathan Briggs, late Cook of S.S. 

' Albatross,' who hereby claims 25 per cent, on 

all profits accruing from the aforesaid wedding." 

So ran the wording of all that may be published here 
of John Smith's marriage lines. My accumulated ex- 
periences of such hearties as John Smith and Jonathan 
Briggs, Esq., gave me an idea as to the fine old times 
those two noble papalagis had in their sojourn on those 
isles to the southward during their brief kingship. But 
no hint of all I imagined was visible on my countenance 



260 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

when I handed the tattered document back to the smiling 
ex-queen. At this moment a hideous, aged Chinaman 
poked his face in the palace doorway and surveyed me 
with surprised, yellowish, vicious eyes. I wondered who 
he was, what relationship existed between him and the 
Queen, that he could so impertinently thrust his ugly 
physiognomy into the doorway like that. The next mo- 
ment he had gone, and I saw him no more, though I 
heard him gabbling as he drove off the flocks of children 
who persistently crowded by the palace door, waiting 
till I should come out again. And still the Queen spoke 
on. Palao patiently translated her tales of departed 
lovers for my inquisitive ears. Seeing my curiosity, her 
eyes gleamed with delight, her two remaining frontal 
teeth, fitting fork-like into the gaps between the two 
teeth of the lower jaw, gave a sardonic look to her face 
as she sat there. She wore a peculiar garb too : the 
remnant of some old European skirt swathed her frame, 
but was cut very short, ending just above the knees. 
On her head was an old hat that had once been a fash- 
ionable Parisian bonnet. Possibly this hat had been 
presented to her by one of the French officials. 

As I boldly surveyed her limbs she drew one tawny 
finger along the faded blue curves and stripes of tattoo. 
From all that she vigorously hinted, those tattoo marks 
were historic representations that denoted the insignia 
and coats-of-arms of the tribes wherein she had married. 
"What may that mean, Palao?'* I said, as I glanced 
curiously at her anatomy, and observed impressionistic 
figures of muscular men, some standing in a gladiatorial 
attitude, spear in hand and face uplifted. And then, 
listening carefully to all that Palao had to say, I made 
out that they were a few of the ex-queen's old lovers — 
men who had won her love in years gone by and died 
in some great tribal battle that had been led by some 



AN OLD MARQUESAN QUEEN 261 

mighty chief who also yearned for her impassioned em- 
brace! As my faithful Palao and Sango translated these 
thing's to me (and more than once cast their eyes in 
shame to the palace floor), it seemed like a dream that 
I should be standing in that coral-built place listening 
to the memories that remained in that old woman's brain. 
A great deal that she said sounded to my ears " not 
quite the thing." But I am not one who is too squeam- 
ish or critical over the moral codes that exist outside 
the dominions of my own land. As she gazed up into 
my face, and her aged lips quivered in the emotion she 
felt over her wild reminiscences, I took the extended, 
shrivelled hand, and, with some emotional idea of all 
that she once had been, gallantly kissed it! After that, 
her conversation suddenly changed to a subtle delivery 
of phrases in pigeon English. I slowly gathered that 
she was telling me of wondrous presentations she had 
received from her past lovers, and how they had each 
in turn recognized the great honour conferred upon them 
by her acceptance of their manifold gifts. Before I had 
gathered the true import of what she was driving at, 
she was beseeching me to hand over my violin to her. 
I remained obdurate. What on earth she wanted my 
instrument for. Heaven knows. Possibly she was child- 
ish, and so, like a child, would have it as a toy. 

She invited me to go out into the palace grounds. She 
led the way. Her garden was cultivated. Pineapples, 
tomatoes, taro, oranges, yams, and many tropical fruits 
grew in abundance around me. By the shade of the 
buttressed banyans, at the far end of the cleared space, 
stood a huge wooden idol. It was a hideous thing: 
one large tooth protruded from its wide, slit, crocodile- 
like mouth, where in and out crawled fat insects with 
tortoise-shell-hued wings (I think they were big ants). 
Though the Queen wore a Catholic medallion on her 



262 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

bosom, and had told me that " She belonger Popey God, 
and was all-e-samee great CHston womans," I distinctly 
saw her aged form give a bow of heathenish reverence 
as we both stood in front of that monstrous heathen 
deity! It stood nearly seven feet high, and standing 
there as some representation of infinity, the hopeless- 
ness of creeds and all the ills and mockery of human 
existence, it was a magnificent bit of perfection. When 
we returned into the small palace, it was dusk. 
" Salaba ! " called Vakamoa in a wheezy voice. In a 
moment I heard the shufiiing of running feet, and then a 
beautiful Marquesan maid, robed in tappa-cloth, flowers, 
and threaded shells, appeared before me. She gazed on 
me with a quizzical lustrous gleam in her eyes. This 
maid interested me because of her European-like features. 
I saw her place her fingers into the folds of her thick 
tresses to see that the hibiscus blossoms were still taste- 
fully arranged, in much the same way as a vanity-stricken 
English maid might do. In a few moments this serv- 
ing-maid, for such she was, lit up all the tiny hanging 
coco-nut-oil lamps in the apartment, then she went away 
and left Vakamoa and myself alone. 

Squatting on the mats, I did as she bade me, and com- 
menced to play my violin. She seemed very pleased 
with the English melodies that I performed, and once or 
twice mumbled as I played. 

''You liker see me dance?" she said. Then she 
hummed a little himine and asked me to play it. Had 
I not seen that old woman career round that low-roofed 
chamber as she danced some old barbarian rhythm, I 
would never have believed it possible. So astonished 
was I, that I forgot my part of the business and stopped 
playing. "Alo! Alo!" (Go on! Go on!) she said, 
almost fiercely. In a moment I placed my instrument 
to my chin, and once more fired away. The hanging 



AN OLD MARQUESAN QUEEN 263 

lamps along the roof -beams swayed to and fro as her 
skirt swished violently, and her stiff legs made such 
movements that it is impossible to describe them. " If 
this is how she goes on in the dry leaf what did she do 
in the green ? " was my reflection, as her bony legs went 
up with a bound, and then right over my head! I've 
no wish to exaggerate in the description of it all; only 
those who have seen the fetish frenzy of an aged bar- 
barian woman under the influence of whisky (for so I 
concluded she must be) will know what I saw that 
night! I had no alternative but to go through with it. 
As she leapt over me her toes caught in my hair and 
withdrew some by the roots! But I did not budge an 
inch; I simply played for dear life, as it were. I knew 
that she was a heathen, that she was old and childish 
and not responsible for her actions. I also recalled many 
things that O Le Langi had told me about heathen 
women's mad ways when they grow old and realize the 
loss of their beauty. " She can't go on much longer," 
I thought, as she bounded round the room, lifting her 
scraggy arms and chanting in a weird manner. True 
enough, she slowed down after the fiftieth round, and 
then sat panting beside me. After that exhibition, I 
did my best to keep on the right side of her. I handed 
her a piece of tobacco plug that I, fortunately, had in 
my pocket. And, though it was my last piece of tobacco, 
I felt well repaid for its loss by the evident pleasure 
the gift gave her. She immediately twisted a lump off 
and placed it in her large corn-cob pipe, then struck a 
match on the boniest portion of her anatomy, and started 
to puff vigorously at my gift. 

After that I withdrew as hastily as possible from her 
chamber. Palao and Sango re-entered and prostrated 
themselves at her feet. This pleased her immensely. 
Going down the mossy pathway that led to the stockade 



264 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

gate, I turned my head and waved two or three farewell 
salutations. The last I saw of her was as she stood 
by her door, her forked teeth close together as she 
grinned with pleasure at thinking I should return on the 
morrow! But I did not return again. And I may say 
here, that I have always felt more at ease in the presence 
of old native men than in the presence of native women, 
be they waiting-women or ex-queens. 

Before I left the immediate precincts of that bungalow, 
which Vakamoa styled her " palace," I strolled into the 
tiny coral-fenced clearing by the plateau of the mountain 
slopes. It was the lonely place where the tribe buried 
their dead. I gazed for a little time on the strange 
tomb-stones, and tried to make out the inscriptions that 
apparently commemorated the past virtues of kings and 
chiefs who had passed into shadowland. Notwithstand- 
ing the feathery palms and the glimpse of the far-away, 
moonlit, tumbling seas, it was a forlorn place. And 
now, doubtlessly, that discarded Queen Vakamoa has long 
since dissolved, with all her pride of past queenship, into 
a little dust, and a lump of memorial coral tells where 
she lies in that tiny, barbarian necropolis. 

• •••••• 

Next day I accepted the invitation of Palao to stop 
in his father's bungalow near the shore. I had had 
enough adventure for the time being, and so was ex- 
tremely pleased to romp with the native children and 
listen to their wonderful fairy tales. For be it noted that 
those children had their Hans Andersens and Grimms, 
just as we have. I'll tell one of the stories in the next 
chapter. 



CHAPTER XIV. TISSEMAO AND THE CUTTLE- 
FISH 

Impressionistic Scene in Nuka Hiva — Tissemao listens to 
the Luring Voice of a Cuttle-fish — The Love-Stricken 
Cuttle-fish — When Crabs are Brave. 

THE pagan city of Nuka Hiva was silent. The tired 
sentinel stars were creeping homeward. Dawn had 
already arisen from her silvery couch, her soft robe, 
cut out of the warm western winds, wrapped around her, 
her sandals dipped in light as she stood on the skyline, 
a few stars still plucking her dusky hair. Then that 
wonderful enchantress, who awakens the ages, stepped 
tiptoe across the horizon's shadow hills, the echoes of 
her footfalls winging the silence of the tropic seas. 
Those echoes, colliding with the granite hills of South 
Sea fairy-land, rustled the magical shadows of the sylvan 
hollows, then, touching the winged nymphs and petals 
of the flamboyants and ndrala blossoms, sped onward 
into the deeper glooms of the forests. An aged cockatoo 
who had spent its best years as a vassal of the god 
Atua Mao, looked sidelong at the golden gleams of the 
eastern sky and called out hoarsely: 

"Talofa! Aloah! Awake, O birds of the forest! 
Morn is here ! Arise ! *' 

Now, all this happened in full view of a little heathen 
village by a mossy slope near Tai-o-hae. And who was 
it could see so strange a fairy-land in the birth of a new 
day breaking across the ranges? It was Tissemao, the 
Marquesan maid ! 

Tissemao was up very early that morning. She had 

265 



266 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

been with her httle brother Noko-noko, fishing for reatos 
in the blue lagoon by the bay. And Noko, burdened 
with fishy wealth, had hurried back home to his village 
hut that stood in the shadows of the mountains of 
Atnana, leaving his sister alone. As Tissemao dangled 
her feet in the cool waters of the ocean the golden light 
was stealing from the eyes of sunrise; it touched the 
surface of the big moani all (ocean) that shone like a 
mighty mirror that stretched to the horizon. Suddenly 
Tissemao felt something pull at her toes which were 
dangling in the sea. Looking down to see what it could 
be, she gave a cry of surprise. And no wonder; 
for a Cuttle-fish poked its head out of the sea, and 
said : 

" I'm so sorry to disturb you, Tissemao, but we've 
all been swimming about here a long time, for we can 
see your shadow in the waters, and really it is very 
beautiful." 

Tissemao blushed to hear such praise. Looking down, 
she saw that it was quite correct, for there, in the water, 
shone her image as clear as though it was mirrored in 
a sheet of glass. Clad in her coloured tappa holaku 
(short chemise), hibiscus flowers in her mass of dusky 
hair, she really did make a pretty picture. 

The Cuttle-fish, putting on its sweetest smile, said : 

" Would you like to come down here and see the 
wonders of the great world under the sea? " 

For a long time Tissemao hesitated, then she said : 

" Why, Mr. Cuttle-fish, you must remember Vm not 
like you; I should soon die for the want of breath under 
the sea." 

"Oh dear, no!" said the artful Cuttle-fish, shaking 
its head slowly at the idea of such a ridiculous sug- 
gestion. 

But very soon, hearing that there were so many strange 



TISSEMAO AND CUTTLE-FISH 267 

and beautiful things under the sea, Tissemao, with the 
Cuttle-fish's kind help, slid down gently into the deep 
water ! 

Directly she got beneath the surface, the Cuttle-fish 
seized her tightly by the arm, and said fiercely: 

" Come on! now Fve got you! " 

Poor Tissemao was frightened out of her life as she 
felt the clutch of the Cuttle-fish as it dragged her down, 
down. It seemed such a long time ere she touched the 
bottom of the ocean. Still the Cuttle-fish clutched her, 
and breathed heavily, like one who had gained a rich 
prize and dreaded to lose it. Dragging her along the 
ocean floor, he came to a cavern. For a moment the 
Cuttle-fish looked round, then took her in. This cavern 
was lit up by a faint glimmer from the light of the sun 
that was shining up over the sea. As Tissemao looked 
round, the Cuttle-fish said : 

"I am all that's beautiful; if you expect to see any- 
thing more beautiful than a cuttle-fish, you are very, 
very much mistaken." 

Saying this, it lifted its ugly face and tried to assume 
a fascinating smile. 

But it was no good. Tissemao would have none of 
it, but simply said : 

" Let me get away; let me go up into my village again, 
will you? " 

The old Cuttle-fish got into an awful rage at hearing 
Tissemao plead so, for he had fallen deeply in love 
with her. 

Now it so happened, and by the merest chance too, 
that the Cuttle-fish was terrifying Tissemao, trying to 
frighten her into subjection, when a very old Crab hap- 
pened to be walking by the Cuttle-fish's cavern door. 
The Crab distinctly caught sight of Tissemao looking up 
with terror-stricken eyes at the Cuttle-fish. 



268 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

"Ho ho!'* he muttered to himself; "so he's at it 
again, is he ! " 

Now, this old Crab was good-hearted, one of the 
respectable kind. And, knowing the reputation the 
Cuttle-fish had as a roue of the worst type, he at once 
determined to thwart the Cuttle-fish in his endeavours to 
attempt to hurt so sweet a maid as Tissemao. So he 
gently looked round the corner of the cavern door, and 
said : , 

" Good afternoon." 

In a moment the vicious Cuttle-fish rushed to the door, 
so that its bulk could artfully hide Tissemao from the 
intruder's eyes. 

The old Crab, seeing through the ruse and not wishing 
to let the Cuttle-fish know that it had seen Tissemao, 
artfully put its claw to its mouth, then, yawning, said: 

" Oh dear, my eyes are so bad lately, really I can't 
see anything at all." Then it looked straight into the 
Cuttle-fish's eyes, and continued : " I suppose you feel 
very lonely here in this cave of yours? " 

The Cuttle-fish, like all things of a wicked type, had 
no brains at all, and so was completely taken in. And 
the Crab, chuckling to itself, went safely on its way as 
quickly as possible round the corner, to consider what 
was best to do to extricate Tissemao from her awful 
position. 

In a moment it had made its mind up. Going up to 
a large cavern that stood in its own grounds to the 
south-west of the mighty forests of sea-weeds, it lifted 
its claws and gently knocked at the door. In a moment 
it opened, and a great Sword-fish thrust its tremendous 
spiked nose out, and said : 

" Hallo! What's up now? I was just having a nap; 
you are the second person who has knocked at my door 
this afternoon and disturbed me." 



TISSEMAO AND CUTTLE-FISH 269 

The old Crab bowed, and apologized profusely as it 
saw the Sword-fish's angry face. Then the Crab said: 

" I have come to you, knowing well that you are a 
friend of the helpless and are fair-dealing in all your 
mighty battles with that weapon, that sword which is 
fixed on your face." 

** Well, make haste. What is it?" said the Sword- 
fish, who, being powerful, was used to soft, flattering 
speeches from old crabs and other helpless things that 
were at his mercy under the deep sea. 

Then the old Crab at once told the Sword-fish all that 
he had seen while he had been passing the door of the 
Cuttle-fish's cave. The Sword-fish, who was fond of 
Cuttle-fish as a breakfast-dish, became most indignant 
as he listened to the Crab's comments on the morals of 
the Cuttle-fish. Then, without further parley, they both 
sallied forth to rescue Tissemao. Arriving outside the 
cavern, the Crab gently knocked at the Cuttle-fish's 
door, as prearranged, and said : 

" Good evening, Mr. Cuttle-fish; I've called to see you 
because you are so lonely." 

The Cuttle-fish, who was persuading Tissemao to give 
him just one kiss, rushed to the door, and said: 

"Clear out of this; I'm busy." 

At this, the old Crab swelled its breast out with bravery 
through its knowledge that the Sword-fish was stealthily 
waiting round the corner, and said: 

" Don't you talk like that to me, you ungrateful wretch, 
when I've come all this way to pay you a friendly visit." 
Then, losing its temper, the Crab gave a knowing wink, 
and said: "I know all about you; you are at your old 
tricks again — whose poor wife have you got in your house 
now, I wonder? " 

With its eyes ablaze with rage at hearing such a sug- 
gfestion from a cowardly old crab, and in its knowledge 



270 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

that truth was spoken, the Cuttle-fish gave a running 
dash, and knocked the Crab over. This act was just 
what the Sword-fish was waiting for, for as the Cuttle- 
fish rushed out of the cave so as to reach the Crab, he, 
too, gave a dash forward and so impaled the Cuttle-fish 
on his mighty sword! In a moment the Crab had re- 
covered its feet, delighted at the success of its ruse. For 
Tissemao kissed its ugly face as it embraced her, and 
told of all it had done on her behalf. It was then that 
the Crab said : 

" Come on ! Come on ! " 

Then it escorted her along the wide floor of the deep 
ocean till she reached the shore. Then it said, " Never 
listen to the flattery of cuttle-fishes again, for you see 
that, but for an ugly old sword-fish and a brave person 
like me, you might have got out of your depth for ever. 
Now then, go away, silly girl ! ** 

On hearing the Crab*s advice, Tissemao at once stepped 
out of the ocean water, and saw the beautiful sun, and 
thereupon made up her mind to be satisfied with the 
world she knew. In a moment she had rushed off into 
the forest, and back again to her native village. Her 
mother was delighted to see her again. They had all 
thought she was drowned, or dead somewhere in the 
forest, for though she knew it not, she had been away 
for three days! And, to this day, the people of those 
isles to the north-west always feel kindly toward old 
crabs, and look upon the big sword-fish as a valiant 
warrior. 

Such was the simple heathen fairy story which was 
told to me by my little comrade the Marquesan youth, 
Palao, who, as the reader will recall, was a member of 
my retinue when I paid a visit to the aged, discarded 
Queen Vakamoa, she who had once been the unlawfully- 



TISSEMAO AND CUTTLE-FISH 271 

wedded wife of Old Martin Smith of New South Wales. 

A few days after leaving the village where my little 
friend Palao lived, I secured lodgings at the primitive 
inn near Tai-o-hae beach. I recall that I stayed at that 
rum-stricken hostel for only a few days. The fact is, 
that an extraordinary old madman dwelt in the room 
next to mine. Just as I laid my weary head down and 
thanked Providence in my blessed anticipation of a well- 
earned month's rest, the old man went raving mad. Why 
Ranjo, my host, put up with him was a complete mys- 
tery. Up and down the room he would tramp, never 
ceasing, till he had wakened me for the night, as he called 
out in a most solemn voice : 

" Suffered under Pontius Pilate. O the quick and the 
dead ! the quick and the dead ! " 

So would he rave on for hours till, exhausted, he fell 
asleep. And then he would snore, and puff the lips of 
his toothless mouth about in such a terrific manner that 
I dreamed that I was dead and sleeping in a deep-sea 
cave where the waves rushed in and violently lifted my 
shell-burred bones eternally. On the third night I was 
relieved of his presence, for he rose after midnight, went 
outside, and knelt before a tallow candle which he lit and 
placed beneath the palm grove. He would kneel before 
this humble tallow altar for about two hours, chanting 
in a sombre voice the Lord's Prayer, interspersed with 
ghastly epitaphs that made my blood curdle as I groaned 
on my trestle bed. 

I was thankful when I made the acquaintance of a 
young German. I cannot wax enthusiastic over a mem- 
ber of the Teutonic race, but still, I must admit, that 
my German friend was as clean-minded a comrade as one 
could hope to meet in the South Seas in those days. 
Indeed, he and I secured a berth as stowaways on a full- 
rigged windjammer, and so left Nuka Hiva, incognito, 



272 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

outbound for the glorious Nowhere of sanguine youth. 
I see by my diary that I eventually arrived in New 
Guinea, where I stayed six months with a celebrated high 
chief and his family. Though my native host \vas an 
inveterate cannibal in battle times, he and his family were 
exceedingly kind to me while I was down with malaria. 
After that I shipped on a German vessel for the Solomon 
Isles, where I arrived off Bougainville in a typhoon. Our 
ship was wrecked off the coast, and we lost four hands. 
I had only my shirt and boots on when a huge comber 
swept me from the deck into the ocean, where I seemed 
to make about four somersaults between the sea and the 
night sky, ere I was landed high up on the sandy beach. 
Next day I recovered my violin from the wreck that lay 
high and dry on the barrier reefs. Unfortunately, I have 
no space to narrate all that I experienced when I became 
the staunch friend of the Solomon Island head-hunters! — 
played the violin to the great Ingrova, to Oom Pa, and 
gave violin lessons to high chief Stem-Poo's half-caste 
daughter, Mallio-Wao, up in the mountain stronghold 
at Zalabar. I will simply say, that, under the friendly 
cover of one dark night, I hurriedly left Ysabel for New 
Guinea, and after many wanderings once more came 
across my Irish comrade, O'Hara. And in the next 
chapters I will attempt to relate those things which I 
count as the most thrilling experiences of wild South 
Sea life which I was ever thrown into by the mystery of 
circumstance. 



CHAPTER XV. CHARITY ORGANIZATION OF 
THE SOUTH SEAS 

I fall from Space — Court Violinist — Arrive in Fiji — 
With the Great Missing. 

I wonder why men o'er the buried weep, 
When 'tis the wandering dead who cannot sleep? 

I WAS hanging by one foot from a mystical cloud, 
lesiurely travelling across the tropic sky, then I 
lost my grip and fell! I distinctly recall the awful sen- 
sation of that noiseless dive through space, ere I arrived 
with a crash! I had apparently fallen through the roof 
of a grog-shanty on a Pacific Isle. Many may doubt 
the aforesaid assertion of mine, and say that such a 
mishap was a physical impossibility. But I would say 
that it is only the impossible that does occur. I felt the 
spasm of that sudden headlong contact of my skull 
against some hard object very acutely. Opening my 
eyes I saw astonished traders standing around me, still 
holding their rum mugs between the bar and their lips 
as they stared, open-mouthed, down on my recumbent 
form. I looked through the doorway and saw feathery 
palms, and moonlit seas softly beating over the coral 
reefs of a strange shore. 

" It looks as though I've fallen on another world," 
thought I. But no such luck for me! The fact of the 
case is this. Our ship, from Honolulu, had arrived off 
the Fiji Islands that evening. I was with O'Hara, whom 
I had re-met in Hawaii. And, in my hurry to get ashore, 
I had hired a canoe, and whilst I was being paddled 
ashore, the canoe had turned turtle! It appeared that 

273 



274. SOUTH SEA FOAM 

I had sunk twice beneath the water before O'Hara and 
the native boatmen rescued me. They thought I was 
done for when they dragged me up the shore and carried 
me into the grog-shanty. 

The native bar-keeper had gone off immediately to 
fetch a well-known Fijian medicine-man who dwelt in 
Tumba-Tumba village. What on earth the medicine- 
man did before he succeeded in restoring my heart-beats, 
I don't know. O'Hara swore that he delivered mighty 
blows on my hips with a flat war-club, lifted me repeatedly 
up to the shanty's roof by one leg and let me drop 
with a crash! The native doctor was evidently cruel 
to be kind, for his strange acts saved my life, and 
were the direct cause of the strange sensations and my 
experience as above recorded. 

As the reader knows, O'Hara was an old pal of mine, 
and, being an Irishman, was impulsive and entertaining. 
When I w^as down in the mouth he proved a medicine- 
man of the spirits, for he made me laugh insanely when 
I was sane, and dosed me with romantic Irish songs and 
rum when credit was scarce. As I have stated, it was 
after leaving New Guinea that I had the good fortune 
to come across my old comrade again in Honolulu. 
Though I had a good musical engagement, and was get- 
ting on in the world, so far as the world's opinion goes, 
I let everything go to the winds through not keeping a 
square chin when O'Hara asked me to go a-roving with 
him. As usual, he nearly succeeded in getting us both 
hanged when we arrived at Apamama and I became Court 
violinist to King Tembinok. It is one thing to be loyal 
to a chum in adversity, but to be expected to do the 
things that O'Hara wished me to do when Tembinok's 
tawny wife fell in love with him was quite another mat- 
ter. I remembered the Fae Fae excursion and our flight 
from Tahiti. 



CHARITY ORGANIZATION 275 

" No, thank you! " I said, when he had the cheek to 
come and ask me 

But, there, it's not my wish to deal with that business 
here. I am out to tell of quite a different adventure 
that befell us after we arrived in Fiji. Financially speak- 
ing, I had done very well in Honolulu. I had secured 
a good engagement as violinist to King Laukauhammer, 
as well as my salary as conductor of the royal bodyguard 
band. In all I managed to save a thousand dollars. 
Though I am not a man who can see anything in this 
world to get a swelled head about, my vanity was con- 
siderable when the King presented me with the Court 
shield of the Kalakaua dynasty — an equivalent to the 
Cross of the Chevalier of Honour — thus making my 
seventh South Sea knighthood in less than twelve months, 
not counting, mind you, the proffered kingship at 
Temelako, New Guinea, where, on playing my violin 
under a palm tree, outside a heathen seraglio, I was 
embraced by a widowed queen and compelled to enter 
the tribal palace palavana by royal command. Also I 
had, to the King's delight, composed special marches, 
and scored them for the strange, primitive instrumenta- 
tion of the King's private military band. For a while 
I had lived sumptuously at the best hotel in Beratania 
Street. Then I had decided to start off in search of any 
adventure that was opposed to the orthodox route as 
mapped out in the twelve commandments of civilized life. 

I recall that O'Hara and I sailed as first-class passen- 
gers on the S.S. " Alameda," which was bound for 
N.S.W., via Suva, Fiji. The voyage was momentous 
for its monotony, net one storm or passionate incident. 
O'Hara and I cursed everything, wished the sea yellow. 
the sun blue, and that the crew might mutiny and pitch the 
skipper overboard or cast us adrift on endless waters. 
Night after night we unbuttoned our clothes and thank- 



276 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

fully " turned in " to rehearse a death-like existence in 
our small, coffin-shaped bunks. After arriving in Fiji 
and those things happening already narrated, we put up 
at the best hotel in Suva, scorning Smith's bar and the 
old fan-tan shanty at Buta. For a while we enjoyed 
the company of the elite — well-to-do traders, ships' mates 
and derelict skippers, stranded runaway apprentices, and 
strange men of better days who appeared to have lost 
their memory and their reason for being in Fiji at all. 

It was while we were stopping at this hotel that O'Hara 
and I discovered that our improvidence necessitated our 
looking for cheaper diggings. An old shellback, seeing 
how things were with us, took us into his confidence, 
recommended us to a good lodging-house, a sort of 
Sailors' Home, on the Rewa river. First, one must know 
that this Sailors' Home was primarily the " Charity Or- 
ganization of the Southern Seas ! " For, beneath its kind 
roof, sheltered by giant breadfruit trees, men hid from 
the Suva police — men who were mostly fugitives from 
across the world, and who had flown from the cities 
in haste to save their necks or their liberty. But this fact 
did not deter O'Hara and myself from wishing to go 
there. Personally, I have always thought that one has 
a perfect right to save one's neck. Man has only one 
neck, one life, and not always one chance whilst alive of 
doing better for himself. 

The idea that there was really a lonely wooden estab- 
lishment hidden in the deep seclusion of a certain forest, 
where hunted men found refuge from the law, was most 
fascinating to me, and this fascination was the main 
incentive that took O'Hara and me there. 

When that old shellback stood on the Suva parade, 
put his finger secretively up to the side of his corrugated 
nasal organ, and gave us a significant wink of magnificent 
import as to all that he could tell about that Charity 



CHARITY ORGANIZATION 277 

Organization, O'Hara's heart seemed to fairly burst with 
glorious anticipation. His curly hair seemed to bristle 
forth the possibilities before us; his face flushed till his 
bright blue eyes seemed to breathe forth the poetry of 
romance. Nor was I myself far behind in my eagerness 
to get to that mysterious residence of secretive men of 
past crime. Besides, I was out in the world to take notes, 
and was determined to take them. 

We lost no time. We packed up our goods and 
trekked. By noon of the next day we had been paddled 
in canoes across wide lagoons and up a mighty river 
by friendly natives. Then we plunged into the bush- 
land. 

The very silence of that South Sea forest and the 
gleam of the sea horizon — just visible through the woods 
of mighty breadfruits — gave one's imagination the at- 
mosphere of heathenland mystery. We could hear the 
mountain drums beating the sunset down somewhere up 
in the native villages. To the N.N.W. were the wild, 
tribal, haunted mountains of Vuni-cunu, running in a 
westerly direction, finally meeting the ranges of Muani^ 
vatu. Around us stood huge tropical trees — banyans, 
breadfruits, big bamboos, limes, and the ndrala laden 
with scarlet blossoms. The airs of the deep glooms, 
heavy with the wild perfumes of dying hibiscus and 
many strange, exotic forest flowers, sent pungent odours 
to our nostrils. Not so far away tumbled the cool, swirl- 
ing waters of the river, hurrying on their homeward 
journey from the mountains that formed a grand, wildly 
picturesque background to the district where the large, 
shed-like building of the Charity Organization of the 
South Seas was situated. 

Sheltered by feathery palms and one or two mighty 
buttressed banyans, that dark, vine-overgrown building 
looked like some peaceful hermitage, some primitive mon- 



278 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

astery that sheltered aged missionaries. True enough, 
missionaries dwelt therein; but what missionaries they 
were ! — men who relieved unhappy men who had shaved 
their beards off and arrived in haste overburdened with 
cash ! Yes, they rested there in security till the hot scent 
had blown over, and once again they could continue on 
their way across the wine-dark seas, outbound for the 
enchanted realms of No-Extradition Ports, where dwell 
the Great Missing! 

Could one have put one's ear to that Organization's 
low-roofed door, one would have distinctly heard a chorus 
of muffled oaths and snatches of wild song droning from 
the lips of the mysterious inmates of that Arabian Nights- 
like establishment. Could one have opened that door on 
the sly and peeped in, one would have seen a sight worth 
seeing if only for its anthropological interest. All types 
were there, from the genuine " hard up " honest sailor- 
man down to the reformed native from Timbuctoo. 
There they sat: sun-tanned men from the seas, ex-con- 
victs, Uteres from New Caledonia; handsome faces, 
bleared and serious-looking; hideous, sallow faces with 
pugnacious pug noses — Chinese, half-caste Malays, and 
one or two runaway ships' apprentices. Most of them 
were leaning over the large bench-like table, shuffling 
cards and drinking fiery rum, as ever and anon they 
glanced beneath the rims of their wide-brimmed som- 
breros, and stared with hunted-looking eyes toward the 
shanty's door. They were ever on the alert! O'Hara 
and I had been in that place only two days when two 
runaways arrived from Suva — one of whom hailed from 
London Town, the other from Noumea. They usually 
arrived without portmanteaux, under the cover of night, 
tapped at the door, paid the bribe demanded, and so came 
under the flag of brotherhood and the protection of that 
Charity Organization's kindness. 



CHARITY ORGANIZATION 279 

O'Hara was tremendously excited about it all, and so 
was I. We got to love exciting cases. One day, as 
O'Hara and I were watching the antics of a covey of 
native children romping like puppies in the forest ferns, 
we heard the sound of voices. 

"What's that?'' said O'Hara. 

" Sounds like the paddles of a canoe and voices on 
the beach," I replied. 

We listened again, and distinctly heard sounds as of a 
woman weeping. Going up the little slope, we peeped 
through the banyan trunks ; sure enough, there were new 
arrivals seeking the Organization's shelter. They were 
two in all, the third person, who was leading them across 
the dense fern scrub, was Bill Bode, the second in com- 
mand of the shanty. One of the fugitives was a tall, 
aristocratic-looking man; the other a young and pretty 
girl. It was very evident that the latter felt depressed 
as she looked in wonder at the sombre forest surround- 
ing us. 

The shadows of night were falling when we crept 
softly down the tracks and once more entered that mys- 
terious shanty's door. 

That building consisted of several large, low-roofed 
rooms and two small compartments that were strictly 
private. One was arranged with much taste, even deco- 
rated with flower-pots and provided with the essentials 
for a fragile guest; and when the fugitive arrived, bring- 
ing with him the sad cause of his downfall, it was in 
that small compartment that she slept! 

As O'Hara and I arrived in the rooms of that Sailors' 
Boarding Establishment, for such it was to us, the new 
arrival walked quietly into the primitive saloon bar, gave 
a friendly nod to the members of the motley throng, and 
sat down amongst the guests, who were mostly belated 
sailors awaiting a ship. For, as I have intimated before, 



280 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

not all who dwelt beneath that roof were hiding from 
the long arm of the law. If anyone had doubts as to 
the respectability of that place, they would have been 
quickly dispelled had he seen the look on the faces of 
those rough men when someone tapped loudly at the 
door. That same evening Ko-Ko, the half-caste native 
maid, was dancing on the large bench at the far end of 
the room. Everything seemed rosy and peaceful. As 
the rough men cheered and repeatedly encored the girl's 
dances, and one played the banjo and step-danced an 
incongruous ohligato to the girl's song, the hilarity w^as 
suddenly turned off like a gas-jet! Crash! someone had 
knocked violently at the shanty's front door! 

Every " man-jack " breathed an oath, put his hand to 
his sheath-knife, and glared his anticipation of the arrival 
of the police from Suva. The new arrival trembled visi- 
bly, and turned ashy-white as once more it came — crash ! 
crash ! on the door. 

Just by the door was a huge tub which was a kind of 
emergency barrel. The whole scene, there in the shadows, 
seemed like some terribly realistic moving-picture show 
enacting before our eyes. Bones had rushed from the 
next room, lifted the vast lid from the barrel, while four 
stalwart men lifted the new arrival bodily — crash! bang! 
the stranger had gone ! 

Only a muffled swear-word told the way of his going 
as the lid went down. 

Bones, who was the head of that Organization, and 
pocketed the bribes, gave his holiest smile, his half- 
humorous-looking face betraying no sign of the intense 
excitement of the moment when the new-comer had dis- 
appeared from life's wildest drama beneath the lid of that 
huge barrel. 

As the door opened, a giant of a fellow stood framed 
by the opening. It appeared that he was a half-caste 



CHARITY ORGANIZATION 281 

official from the Suva police force. When he had told 
Bones that a canoe had been found on the beach, and 
that they had received information that a fugitive from 
the N.S.W. mail steamer had landed at Suva, Bones simu- 
lated a terrible passion. 

'' What the b h yer come 'ere for? What's 

that to do with me? " 

" Keep yer wig on," said the official, standing just 
behind the first man, who by this time had given Bones 
a significant wink. It required very little thought to 
enable one to discern that Bones was well in with those 
officials. And one's suspicions would have soon been 
confirmed had one seen the official in question sit down 
on the emergency barrel, and grin from ear to ear as a 
muffled sneeze came from beneath the lid! 

In a few moments the friendly man-hunters had passed 
away, happy enough with their bribe, — bribery being the 
staple trade of that establishment. 

Next day a shot was heard in the forest. When the 
Organization members rushed out beneath the palms, they 
only discovered the quivering body of yesterday's arrival 
* — the new-comer had blown the top of his head off ! They 
hid the body beneath the scrub. Next day they buried 
him on the quiet, miles away, near the old-time sugar 
plantations. 

Bones and three or four others were the chief mourn- 
ers. No coffin, simply a bit of old tarpaulin tied tightly at 
the feet and again round the neck, the canvas so short 
that the poor fugitive's hair stuck out in a pathetic bunch. 
It was like burying a man at sea as they dropped him 
down into that hastily-dug hollow. O'Hara crossed him- 
self. Bones said something that sounded kind. As for 
the girl, she wept bitterly, trembling like a leaf as she 
knelt by the grave-side. It made me wonder if I dreamed 
that sight — a grave in a South Sea forest, that silent, 



282 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

canvas-wrapt figure, and that innocent-looking girl with 
a world of sorrow, utter misery on her face. She wasn't 
his daughter ; there was something too passionately poeti- 
cal in the things she said as she knelt there, caring not 
at all for the men who stared down at her with a misty 
look in their eyes. 

Two days after that, she had sufficiendy recovered 
so that she could venture to travel. The kindness of 
Bones and the shady characters was something that re- 
vealed in an indisputable manner that a woman's pres- 
ence and sorrow have more religious influence on sinful 
hearts than all the Psalms. 

No one knew the exact way of that girl's going. But 
the favoured theory was that Bones and the Organiza- 
tion members had made a collection and so paid her fare 
in the next steamer that was bound for London. 

Next day a clergyman arrived. " Ecclesiastical pro- 
fession " was writ in sombre lines across his lean physi- 
ognomy. 

" Who's coming here next?" breathed O'Hara, as we 
looked up from the pages of our novels, making sure that 
he too was fleeing from the righteous arm of justice. 
But we were mistaken. He was simply a kind-hearted 
religious crank who spent his days in wandering from 
isle to isle seeking to reform fallen men. His woe- 
begone, melancholy aspect cast a deep gloom over the 
establishment as he moaned out sad quotations from his 
Bible, a gloom that pervaded the forest and darkened 
the sea horizon. Bones shook him heartily by the hand 
when he first arrived and said pious things. Bones had 
a face like cast-iron, but was soft-hearted and the finest 
hypocrite extant. Some of the honest sailormen, yield- 
ing to that sad ecclesiastic's soft persuasion, listened to 
long passages from the Psalms and Solomon's Song. 
Then he took O'Hara and me down to the tribal villages 



CHARITY ORGANIZATION 283 

and introduced us to some of the old-time chiefs. Shaggy 
old women prostrated themselves at his feet as he prayed 
for their souls. 

It was very evident that he had been that way before. 
Everyone seemed to know him. I got to like him im- 
mensely during the two days that he stopped with Bones. 
His madness was interesting and original, and made an 
agreeable change after consorting with mortals who were 
quite sane. Then he, too, passed away on his melancholy 
wanderings. 

After he went, there arrived a troupe of troubadours, 
who came from Melbourne as deck-passengers on a 
schooner. Among their number were three American 
girls who turned that shanty into a kind of opera houjfe, 
as they sang and step-danced in a wonderful way. The 
scene inside when the girls danced and the fat man 
played his guitar, looked like some living-picture repre- 
sentation of Madame Tussaud's, as though all the lifeless 
criminals had been mysteriously awakened and were 
applauding the visitors, waving big hats in wild ecstasy 
at being serenaded so sweetly while in their degraded 
state. For, as they listened to the troubadours, about 
twenty of us stood by, looking on the shadowy scene 
lit up by the tallow candles that swung to and fro on 
wires suspended from the roof of the wide bar- 
room. 

I believe the wandering troupe made a splendid col- 
lection that night. I know the fat man, with a big 
stomach, got very drunk, sang several songs, and then 
fell down. And the girls giggled all night long as they 
slept in the private compartment, wherein the unhappy 
fugitive girl had rested the night before. 

Next day the troupe bade us all farewell, for they 
were bound for 'Frisco, and the boat was leaving at 
noon. 



284 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

I think O'Hara and I had been at the establishment 
for two weeks then. It wasn't a long time, but I had 
seen more strange sides of life in that short time than 
one could well see under normal circumstances in twenty 
years. But it must be admitted that my immediate ex- 
periences seemed very vapid compared with the exciting 
adventures of the peculiar men who arrived at the Charity 
Hermitage and seemed never weary of telling their remi- 
niscences and hairbreadth escapes to the new-comers. 
Even O'Hara opened his mouth in astonishment at all 
he heard from the lips of those who yearned to tell yarns, 
as over and over again some strange old derelict would 
pull his whiskers w^hile dropping into deep meditation 
as to " what happened next." That Hermitage of the 
South Seas was a kind of Old Inn on life's highway 
•wherein sad men entered from the unknown, sat and 
drank, sang a song, and then departed out into the un- 
known, sometimes in a great hurry. Three extraordi- 
nary-looking beings arrived at the Hermitage one night. 
One resembled Don Quixote in extremis, another had a 
huge crooked nose that was swathed by a vast reddish 
beard, and the third had a huge, domed bald head that 
looked like a mighty billiard ball with flapping ears. 
They were attired in loose, dilapidated pantaloons, heavy 
belts, coloured shirts, and firearms, and might have been 
South Sea freebooters, blackbirders, or anything that is 
wild and lawless, if appearances are to be relied upon. 
They hadn't been in the Organization Hermitage twelve 
hours before the half-caste surveillants arrived at the 
door. The three new-comers at once made a bolt out 
under the palms that led down to the seashore, a quarter 
of a mile off. And, if anyone had happened to pass 
along the sands that afternoon, they w^ould assuredly have 
seen three weird-looking objects with twinkling eyes 
sticking up out of the calm blue waters by the shore's 



CHARITY ORGANIZATION 285 

coral reefs. To an imaginative observer those objects 
would certainly have resembled the figureheads of three 
sunken Chinese junks, wooden faces protruding, just vis- 
ible at low-tide, the eyes glassy, staring at the sky, lips 
tightly compressed, the nostrils level with the ocean's 
surface. But then again, the vast polished bald head 
of one was unaccountable, and the bristly hair of another 
toned down the weird unreality of the scene. For who 
ever saw a hideous Chinese junk's figurehead with thick 
hair on its crown, and tobacco smoke issuing from its 
mouth? In short, those three objects were the heads of 
the three new-comers, their bodies hidden beneath the 
sea's surface, their heads and nostrils exposed just suffi- 
cient so that they might inhale the breeze, as they hid 
from the surveillants ! Next day the natives missed a 
twelve-seater outrigger canoe. And had high chief 
Makaroa looked seaward, instead of kneeling and weep- 
ing before his old idol, he would have seen a small object 
fading away on the ocean horizon far to the S.W. It 
was none other than Makaroa's missing canoe, with the 
three fugitives, out on the wide world of waters, bound 
for Nowhere! But all this is only a detail. 

Perhaps it will not be out of place to tell one of the 
yarns that we heard at the Hermitage, — not a swash- 
buckling story, but a tale that had the indisputable ring 
of truth in it. The teller of the story was a weird-looking 
fellow of about fifty years of age. He had lived in the 
Solomons and Fiji for years. I think he was a trader. 
Anyway, he had travelled the South Seas in the old 
heathen times, had lived in Fiji when cannibalism was 
in vogue, and King Thakombau reigned supreme over 
his dominions from the old capital of Bau. In these 

pages I will call him G . I cannot reproduce his 

exquisite manner in telling a story. I had never heard 
anything Hke it before. He had lived in the isles to the 



286 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

east when Bully Hayes roamed the seas, when King 
Tembinok of Apamama was in his cannibal youthful 
prime, and Queen Vaekehu of Tai-o-hae welcomed many 
a dusky potentate into her impassioned arms. 



CHAPTER XVI. YORAKA'S DAUGHTER 

The Wild White Girl— The Wagner of Storms— A 
Pagan Citadel — Pagan Democracy — Ye Old Britisher — 
A Battle in the Dark. 

irplRST I must state that G was a casual member 

**- of the Charity Organization, an Englishman, and, 
from the general run of his conversation and manner, 
gave one the impression that he had seen better days. 
But there was nothing wonderful about that, for it is a 
fact that many of the apparent rogues of those days 
betrayed something of past polish, and possessed a per- 
sonality infinitely more interesting than that of men who 
had never stepped over the border-line. 

G was a big lump of a fellow, just over six feet 

in height, and had fine, expressive eyes full of humour 
and sometimes revealing a lingering sadness that made 
one's heart go out to him. Personally, I liked him im- 
mensely. He could play the flute as well as he could 
tell a yarn, and that's saying something! 

But I would say, right here, that the story that he 
told me, and which I will tell here, is told not so much 
for the presumable interest that it might give as a mere 
yarn, as for my absolute confidence in the veracity of 
the man who told me it, his manner whilst telling it 
leaving such a possibility as doubt or exaggeration quite 
out of the question. Nor was there any justifiable reason 

why one should be sceptical, since G had lived, as 

I have said, in Fiji when cannibalism was in vogue, and 
white men arrived at the islands and did very much as 
they liked, — some resorting to savagery, some giving 

287 



288 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

their hand in marriage to dusky queens, ascending thrones 
and holding full sway over swarthy populations of 
heathenland. 

It was a glorious tropical eventide when G , 

O'Hara, and I sat under the palms as the fireflies com- 
menced to dance in the bamboos b}^ the shore lagoons. 

G took his pipe from his lips, stroked his bearded 

chin in his characteristic way, and commenced : 

" You must know, boys, that things were very different 
in these parts in the old semi-heathen times. I had 
arrived for the second time in Levuka then, had left a 
trading schooner, and was spending my time in looking 
round. I was a bit of a romantic loony in those days, 
and when my pal, Mick Deny, who had been shipmate 
with me for two years, heard that a Britisher, a fugitive 
from justice, was living like a wild man up in the Kai 
Tholos mountains with his daughter, we got interested, 
I can tell you. We got the whole facts of the case out 
of one of the Kai Tholos natives who had come into 
Levuka to get fish. Deny was a bit gone on girls, and 
when he heard that the Britisher had brought that young 
daughter of his out to these infernal regions and had 
brought her up as a heathen amongst those tribal natives, 
he was as eager as I to visit the stronghold in the moun- 
tains and see how matters stood. It appeared that this 
fugitive Britsher had assumed command over the tribe 
with whom he dwelt, styled himself as Roko (high chief), 
taken unto himself several native wives, and resorted to 
the unbridled lust and degradation of savagery. 

" ' How old is the girl ? ' queried Deny, as the native 
trader told us these facts. 

" ' She nicer Marama, grow up beautifuls, nicer crown 
hair, nicer eyes, colour of moani ali (the ocean ).^ 

" As that Fijian gabbled away, waxing enthusiastic 
over the beauty of the exiled w^hite girl up there, im- 



YORAKA'S DAUGHTER 289 

prisoned from the sight of her own race, Deny and I 
fairly gasped over the idea of it all. We got no sleep 
that night. The idea of that girl being cruelly treated 
by her criminal parent seemed to set our brains afire 
with romantic ideas. By the morning we had made our 
minds up, and had decided to make an expedition up 
into the Tholos mountains. The first thing to do was 
to get some goods, so I went down to the schooners that 
lay in the harbour, cadged some sugar, tea, tobacco plug, 
and those essentials which I guessed would meet our re- 
quirements. Deny's eyes flashed with delight at the idea 
of it all. The risk of the job we were undertaking did 
not deter us, it only added spice to the business. And 
the natives, I can tell you, were not as chummy in those 
days as they are now. Old Thakombau had only just 
been converted to Christianity, had swallowed four casks 
of sacramental rum, and had shaken hands with all the 
missionaries. But he was a sly old fellow, and didn't 
know anything about the tribal fights and the missing 
bodies of the dead after the Bokolai feast (cannibal 
feast). Oh no! Not he. He was quite converted! 
When we had packed up our few. traps, not forgetting 
my flute, and were quite ready to start off, little Sanga, 
the native girl who did our cooking in the beach shanty 
(only one store in Levuka in these days), started crying, 

" * You no-e takeer little Sanga longer you ? ' 

"*Let the kid come,' said Deny; 'besides, she'll be 
useful, knows the lingo, and that kind of thing,' he added. 

" * All right, Sanga ; don't grizzle,' said I. 

" Then Deny and I went into the village to get per- 
mission from Sanga's parents. 

" She couldn't go off on an excursion like that without 
getting permission from her parents. Sanga's mother, 
a fine-looking half-caste, gave us the kid in complete 
confidence. 



290 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

" ' You noble Papalagis; me trust her with you.' 

" * Yes, we're holy beggars,' thought I, as we walked 
away across the rara, Sanga somersaulting with delight 
like a puppy at our heels, as we left the village and 
started on our trip to find out all about the Britisher and 
his daughter. We did take care of that kiddie too, al- 
though we had some rough times ere bringing her safely 
back to her village. 

" By midday next day we had tramped many miles 
inland, and had already crossed the lower ranges of the 
mountains to the N.N.W. 

" Sanga was a blessing to us, and sang weird heathen 
songs as she tramped by our side. I had dressed her up 
in a little blue kimono which I had cut out of a large 
silk handkerchief, cutting holes in it for the armpits. 
When she looked at herself in the lagoon hard by, she 
chuckled with delight. The first night was all that could 
be desired as we slept beneath the palms, side by side, 
and Deny sang a highland song till I fell asleep. 

" The next night a typhoon blew. It was something 
that I had never heard before in the way of nature's 
extempore musical expression. As you know, I am not 
much of a musician. I can play the flute and knock 
out the common chords for a song and dance on the 
piano; but to describe the harmonies that storm made 
in the mountains is quite beyond me. We were all 
tired out, just going off to sleep. In fact, I heard Deny 
snoring. Sanga lay at my feet, her head on my calf, 
as she hummed in the dark. Then it came — no warning, 
mind you. Bang! It seemed as if there had been some 
tremendous upheaval in interstellar space, that worlds 
and planets were exploding like vast bombs somewhere 
beyond the moon, the south-western horizon being re- 
peatedly blown out as the debris struck the mountains 
around us. The enormous breadfruits and banyans, all 



YORAKA'S DAUGHTER 291 

bending and howling like the sails, rigging, and masts 
of ships in a hurricane, moaned a wild symphony in the 
pitch darkness, for the clouds had slid over, puff! and 
put the moon out without any warning. Once a star 
gleamed as the wrack raced across the sky. Sanga 
huddled close up to Deny as I put my hand out to see 
where they were. Then the moon burst through the cloud 
and the shadows went racing across the gullies till it 
seemed that the mountains themselves were moving along, 
sailing before a head wind! Then the deluge began. 
We were sheltered in a native hut, but the rain came in 
by the bucketful. Oceans seemed to crash down from 
the sky. Mighty trees were uplifted, and before they 
fell to the earth were carried across the gullies like twigs 
before the tremendous violence of the wind. Then there 
started the most wonderful thing in the way of sound 
that I have ever heard, or shall ever hear again. It 
seemed that a thousand demons had come out to carouse 
and play ghostly instruments in some phantom military 
band. I never heard anything to resemble it. Drums 
began to beat, a thousand strong, bassoons, horns, double 
basses, clarionets, *cellos, saxaphones, bugles, cornets — 
all wailing and bellowing forth in the wildest orchestral 
combination that human ears ever heard. * God ! What 
is it pal? ' yelled Deny in my ear, and his voice sounded 
like the wail of a child. My own heart thumped. 
' Strange that I should live to see the end of the world,' 
thought I, as that terrible nightmare of sound suddenly 
subsided, while the typhoon stopped a moment to take 
breath ! We didn't know it then, but that typhoon was a 
kind of mighty Wagner of the elements that came by 
night with universal breath to blow the terrific diapasons, 
vast bassoons and thunderous wails, whistles, and timpani 
effects in the mightiest orchestral instrument that creation 
has made, so far as I know. It was like this : those 



292 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

mountains were volcanic, and so were fairly honeycombed 
Avith precipitous tunnels and big cavernous hollows, each 
hollow possessing its own peculiar, specific quality of 
sound, so that when the typhoon arrived, and its ten 
thousand orchestral members, so to speak, placed their 
phantom lips and blew terrifically into each crevice, the 
noice resembled something like ten thousand Eastern 
Monday steam-organs and beating-drums going hard and 
strong on some holiday down in shadowland ! 

" I don't exaggerate when I say that some of the notes 
rang out in clear, silvery, bugle tones, some full and 
mellow, tremulous with throbbing expression; then the 
muffled sound of a mighty drum would boom out in that 
infinite harmony of the dark and wind! When you 
consider that a typhoon's terrific and tremendously varied 
breathing powers blew through a thousand thousand deep- 
voiced bugles and trumpets with curling tubes that went 
running right down into the volcanic bowels of the Fijian 
Isles, there wasn't much wonder in the fact that wonder- 
fully marvellous subtle musical effects and perfect in- 
tonation should crop up somewhere. Of course, Deny 
and I hadn't the slightest idea then as to how that pan- 
demonium of sound came about. 

" The end of the world arrived and they sent 
some kind of a brass band to lead the battalions of the 
dead heathens into shadowland; that's what it is,' yelled 
Deny, cheering up when T touched him, to assure myself 
that we were still in the flesh. 

** I think Sanga cheered us up more than anything. 
She even laughed, just as we thought we were about to 
die too! 

" She was a plucky youngster, and good-looking to 
boot. 

" When dawn came the sun burst through the sky as 
though it was in a hurry. It seemed to boil the soaking 



YORAKA'S DAUGHTER 293 

mountain forests. We could see the chameleon-like 
colours sparkling, as the steam from the heated tropical 
vegetation rolled away over the rugged hills. We were 
drenched through. By nightfall I was seized with pains 
in the back. It was a kind of malaria. My limbs began 
to quiver. By midnight I was delirious. 

" * Don't die, pal,' said Deny, as I begged him, for old 
time's sake, to strangle the mighty heathen god who kept 
peering through the clouds, putting his stinking mop-head 
against my nose as he struck me tremendous blows on 
the head with a war-club! But I could not die. When 
I had slept for an hour and got a bit sane, things seemed 
as bad. For the thousands of insects that had sought 
refuge from the storm in our hut attacked me. Scor- 
pions, fat-bodied lizards, and huge red ants, as big as 
walnuts, and red land-crabs formed up in regiments and 
attacked us. I felt strange things creeping up the inside 
of my pants as they flapped their rudimentary wings. 
Then Deny took me outside and gave me a drink of rum. 
In a few minutes the fever had abated. By midday I 
was as fit as a fiddle. 

'* Deny was a splendid cook. He gathered some feis 
(bananas) and yams from the garden of the deserted 
heathen hut, and made a glorious meal. 

" Then we started off, Sanga singing cheerily behind 
us as we trekked it up into the higher ranges. 

" By this time we were near Nisao, and had already 
sighted one of the native villages to the S.W. Though 
we had heard that the natives of that part were friendly, 
still we were not taking any risks, so we sent Sanga across 
the gullies as an advance-guard. She whipped off like 
an arrow, without the slightest fear. When she came 
back she was accompanied by four stalwart chiefs and 
two women. To our relief they were waving their hands 
friendly-wise, welcoming us to their village. 



294 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

" As we crossed the gully bridge — a huge breadfruit 
trunk — the sight of the small conical homesteads beneath 
the feathery palms, the beautiful moss-ferns, and scarlet- 
flowered ndralas, gave one the impression that we were 
entering some perfect, pagan city of shadowland. Romp- 
ing children stopped their games, rushed out of the shad- 
ows and hut doorways to gaze on Deny and me in aston- 
ishment. The shaggy-haired women by the huts were 
smoking clay pipes, squatting on mats, and staring stol- 
idly at the pretty native girls, who fawned about us, 
stroked our hands, and said in their own lingo, * O 
beautiful Papalagis, with blue eyes!* 

*' It was all right, I can tell you. Suddenly a giant of 
a fellow stood up from among a huddled group of sav- 
ages and come towards us. By the distinguished tattoo- 
esque coat-of-arms on his massive chest and shoulders, 
I knew that he must be the tribal chief. Besides, as 
he came towards us, he was followed by an obsequious 
retinue of eight half-decayed-looking old women, who 
were crawling on their wrinkled stomachs as they placed 
their travelling hands in their august master's footprints. 
They were his old, cast-off wives. The new batch of 
young wives were squatting by the big palavana, showing 
their pearly teeth and making eyes at Deny and me. One 
cheeky little wench, who was clad in a tappa-gown of 
two inches in width and half a yard in length, took a 
flower from her hair and threw it towards us. 

" I can remember it all as though it were yesterday. I 
can even hear the strange bird that was singing up in the 
citron trees, which grew just over the little plot where 
they buried their dead. We felt a bit swaggery when 
the military band came out of the chief palavana, formed 
up with their instruments (vuvis, bone flutes, human 
bones, gourds with strings across, lais, wooden drums, 
and bamboo flutes), and commenced to play an anthem 



YORAKA'S DAUGHTER 295 

of welcome as we entered the stockade gateway that led 
into that portion of the village where the head chief re- 
ceived ambassadors in council. I think the sight of all 
was Sanga, as she marched just ahead of us, a flower 
dangling in her hair, and her little chest swelled majesti- 
cally, as she looked sideways on the tribal children, who 
were staring at her with awestruck eyes. 

" If I had had any poetic idea in my head about that 
village being some dwelling-place of fairy-land, I'm sure 
it was soon dispelled when we passed by the village dust- 
bin. 

" ' Phew ! * said Deny, as Sanga and I sniffed and held 
our noses. Even in those high altitudes of the Fijian 
mountain villages there was considerable room for sani- 
tary improvement. 

** Such was our reception in Nisao just twenty years 
ago. 

" That same night we got pally with the high chief, 
Roko (meaning * high-born '). He gave us all the direct 
information that we required ; told us that, true enough, 
a white man did dwell up in the cool mountain villages 
of the cannibal Kai Tholos. Then he told us how the 
White Roko had lorded it over the village folk of Tumba 
for quite ten years, after having made himself their chief. 
It seemed as though we dreamed it all as we stood there, 
Deny and I, and heard the astounding facts as we warily 
got the friendly chief on the tack that we were most 
interested in. He nodded his head and said : 

" ' Yes, Papalagi, beautiful white Marania (white girl) 
live up there too; nicer chief ess; smoother shoulders, 
whiter skin.' 

" Saying this, old Roko made various descriptive signs 
in an attempt to convey to our minds the wondrous beauty 
of the White Roko's daughter. It was then that we learnt 
that the Englishman was known to his tribe by the name 



296 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

of Yoraka. Whether his name was Yorick, and this 
name that he was known by was a bastardized equiva- 
lent of it, I don't know; possibly it was so. 

" I recall that that old chief was immensely amused 
when he discovered that Deny and I were after the white 
girl. 

** ' How does she dress ? What does she do with her- 
self ? Is she wild? Is she married? ' and such-like ques- 
tions did we put to Roko. 

" Roko did not know much about the girl's habits, for 
she was seldom allowed out of the Tholos stronghold, 
and old chief Roko dared not go up there to his neigh- 
bour's stronghold because they were enemies. We were 
delighted to hear that he was not on friendly terms with 
this extraordinary Yoraka, for it enabled us to extract 
a promise from him to help us out of it should we get 
into difficulties. We arranged that, should our country- 
man * turn up rough ' and set his tribal heathen on us, 
we should send Sanga back to his village for help. 

" * Things are going all right,* chuckled Deny, when the 
old chief took a vow to help us. 

" * Vinaka, O le tani — geroot ! * yelled the tribal war- 
riors. Then they lined up ; and I can tell you. Deny and 
I felt considerably relieved as we inspected Roko's body- 
guard — the war chiefs who would come to our help if 
we needed them. We felt like two seasoned generals as 
we passed along the lines, inspecting those weird-looking, 
tattooed warriors. They swelled their massive chests, 
their big war-club handles standing on end up to their 
shoulders. They had tremendous mouths, the teeth dark- 
ened with the juice of the betel-nut; and such mops of 
hair, I'd never seen the like before. 

'* * Thank God they're on our side ! ' was my mental 
comment, as the great Roko shouted * Karoot ! ' and up 
went fifty war-clubs, ere down they came, crash! in the 



YORAKA'S DAUGHTER 297 

thunderous drill that would show us how easily they 
could smash the thickest of skulls with one well-aimed 
blow ! 

" Twelve hours after that experience we had done the 
eight miles that divided Roko's village from the Tholos 
stronghold. We were actually in sight of that tiny 
mountain citadel wherein had dwelt for nearly ten years 
that fugitive Britisher, Yoraka. 

" There was something terribly weird in the thought 
that up there was one of our own race who had degener- 
ated into complete savagery and held full sway over the 
wild Kai Tholos natives. It were impossible for me to 
attempt to find a name for the atmosphere that my imagi- 
nation conjured up as Deny and I stood there, our white 
helmet hats pushed back on our heads, our hands arched 
to our eyes as we stared towards the sunset that gleamed 
on the far-off tribal huts of that solitary stronghold. 

" * What would they think of us? How would they 
greet us? Would the white girl scream and faint away 
at the delight of it all when she realized that Deny and 
I had come to rescue her? Had she seen white men 
— other than that damnable parent of hers? Or had 
she been a close prisoner from childhood, kept in utter 
darkness of the great civilized world beyond the seas?' 

" A thrill of romance warmed my soul, pulsing through 
my veins like wine, as the novelty, the wonder of it all 
seemed to shine in the magical ultramarine of the far-off 
sea horizon and the mountain sunset. Within an hour 
of our romantic contemplation of the village, we had 
actually entered the stockade gates. I clutched my 
revolver, and Deny did likewise. 

" Just as the children had done in the last village, out 
ran the kiddies from the huts, rushed up to us and 
shouted, ' Vinaka ! Vinaka ! ' 

" ' They've seen plenty of white people before, that's 



298 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

certain,' said I to Deny, as the old, squat-looking chiefs 
and shaggy-haired chiefesses stared stolidly at us as we 
walked by. Possibly it was our tremendous cheek and 
helpless appearance that disarmed the suspicions of those 
wild-looking men and women as they shouted forth their 
acclamations of welcome. 

" We gave them bits of tobacco plug. Thinking it was 
wisest to make no delay in letting them know that we 
were there on a friendly visit, we straightway asked 
them to show us into the presence of the great White 
Roko, Yoraka. Approaching a monstrous-looking chief 
who was heavily decorated with insigniatorial tattoo, we 
expressed our wish. In a moment a bodyguard had 
been formed and was solemnly walking ahead of us, 
leading us through the village. Sanga walked between 
Deny and me. I noticed that she too looked a bit serious 
as she clutched hold of the knee of my trousers. Passing 
through a large archway, that seemed to be of natural 
rock formation, we entered another district of the village. 
As we turned the bend by the orange and citron trees, 
our hearts thumped. We were standing before a large, 
conical-shaped building that had evidently been built on 
European lines. We guessed that we were at last stand- 
ing before the residence of the ex-Britisher. 

" It seemed incredible as we stood there and thought 
of the man who had exiled himself from his race and 
had resorted to the unbridled lust and squalor of all that 
we saw around us — girls and women in all stages of 
undress and motherhood. But it was not so strange when 
one thinks of the criminals and unbridled lust and squalor 
of the dens of great cities — cities superintended by vigi- 
lant police officials with the power of a nation to help 
them put down crime. And who will deny that, not- 
withstanding Scotland Yard, London, and White House, 
New York, crime does exist, that men do revert back 



YORAKA'S DAUGHTER 299 

to their primitive instincts, resort to bestiality, murder, 
and all that's utterly opposed to the instincts of decently 
trained, clean-minded men. However, the fact remains 
that there was a white man who dwelt in complete sav- 
agery in the mountains to the N.N.W., however incredi- 
ble it may seem. And nothing could be more certain 
than the sound of a drunken voice singing an English 
song, the melody of * There is a tavern in the town, in 
the town! ' coming from the inside of that primitive but 
palatial-looking dwelling before us! 

" ' Keep close to me, Sanga,' said I, as the chiefs turned 
and beckoned us. Then Deny's tall form stooped as he 
bent forward and entered the doorway, while Sanga and 
I closely followed him. 

" Though I had conjured up all kinds of picturesque 
types in my mind as to what kind of a man I should see 
when I entered there, I'll swear that I was quite un- 
prepared for the villainous type that I did see. Squatting 
on a mat, native fashion, was a burly-looking man of 
about fifty years of age. His face was a dull, pasty 
brown; indeed, the man before us was more like a half- 
caste than any type I could think of at the moment. Even 
his hair was done up in a large mop, native style. But 
the reddish colour of the beard, and the deep-set, keen 
grey eyes were unmistakable — there squatted a degener- 
ate Britisher, robed in all the glory of primitive royalty. 
Hanging from the wide, low roof were some forty coco- 
nut-oil lamps which added to the mystery of the scene 
before us. In a semicircle, almost up to his feet, squatted 
several native women, some of them young girls, pre- 
sumably his wives. To our astonishment he nodded his 
head, as though courteously to acquaint us with the fact 
that he was pleased to see us. This welcome of his 
seemed incongruous enough, since he wore only a tas- 
selled sulu about his loins, a garb that barely reached 



300 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

to his muscular, hairy knees. As he stood up he re- 
sembled nothing so much as some primitive blacksmith 
who wore a leather apron only — had forgotten to put 
his trousers on. 

" The walls were decorated with fibre matting, skulls, 
old men's beards, and other gruesome articles that make 
up the furniture of barbarian homesteads. On the floor 
in front of him were large calabashes, some full of fruits, 
others containing fermenting toddy. These facts I took 
in at a glance as Deny stood speechless on one side of me 
and Sanga clutched my hand on the other side. 

" Suddenly he looked up, and said : * Vinaka, sirs ! 
glader to see you, o le su, ter-day, savve? ' 

" So long had it been since he had spoken to his coun- 
trymen that he had actually got into the habit of speaking 
pigeon English! For a little while he regarded us with 
suspicion, then, as he took another drink of toddy from 
the calabash that the native girls held to his lips, he 
became garrulous. As he spoke on I noticed that his 
speech improved; one could almost hear the awakening 
in his brain of words that had lain dormant for years. 

" Though I courteously refused to drink of the toddy 
that he ordered to be handed to me, Deny, to my regret, 
swallowed more than was good for him. This convivial 
understanding of like appetites seemed to awaken his 
interest in us, for ere long Deny stood before him and 
sang some old Scottish songs — ' Robin Adair,' and * Will 
ye no' come back again ? ' I think. He gave orders to 
his concubines to fetch us sweet taro, pine-apples, and 
many mixed dishes that were made from indigenous 
fruits. Then he shifted himself, squatted right opposite 
me, and commenced to ask me questions about England. 

" ' Whas London loiker? He! he! he! Does the ole 
Queen still sit on her throne at Windsor ? He ! he ! ' 

" Saying that, he gave a lurch forward, and I saw that 



YORAKA'S DAUGHTER 301 

the pose he had assumed when we entered his dwelHng- 
place had been dispelled by drivelling intoxication. Still 
he raved on, nudged me in the ribs, and shouted toasts 
to other days! Thrusting his pallid face forward, he 
lifted the coco-nut goblet, and yelled again and again, 

* Ows ye b ole Queen!' then he gave me another 

violent nudge, and roared with laughter. 

" ' Nasty-looking ole swine 1 ' said Deny, as Sanga 
pinched my arm and said in a quiet voice : 

" ' Come away ! Come away, Papalagi ! * 

'' I saw that the kiddie didn't like the look of that 
man of my race, who leered towards her, and touched her 
smooth arms. Then Deny and he became reminiscent 
as they discovered they were both familiar with Fleet 
Street. I must say I felt a bit ashamed of my comrade, 
as he too lurched forward and nudged that vile Britisher 
in the ribs. It was plain as plain could be that that 
cursed toddy stufif had made Deny forget himself. 

"'Deny, Deny!' I said reprovingly. 

" Alas, my pal responded only by looking up at me in 
an insane way and gurgling out, * Awl 'ight, pal ! ' 

" As for Yoraka, he opened his slit mouth, drivelled 
like an imbecile, poked his pallid tongue out over his 
sharp-edged, blackened teeth, and yelled: 

" * Do the b natives on ye old Thames still wear 

clothes? He! he! How's ther Derby racecourse? By 
the gods of my fathers, Fd giver something for a soda 
and whisky ter-night I * 

" Saying this much, as near as I can recall all that he 
said, he lurched, put his head forward, and pinched little 
Sanga's small fat leg! The kiddie almost screamed in 
her terror. 

" * It's all right, Sanga. Don't mind him. He's only 
a drunken Britisher,' said I swiftly, as the degenerate 
stooped over his toddy calabash and ofifered Deny another 



302 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

goblet ful. And all the while this was going on his women 
and girl wives and servants, squatting on a mat in a 
semicircle round him, were regarding Deny and me with 
curious stare. 

" Then, once again, in hoarse acclamations, he yelled 
of England. 

" ' Do they still read their Bibles — the pot-bellied, 
wassailed-eyed English? Ye souls of missionaries, I've 
eaten better men than you blooder Englishman ! ' 

" Listening to those wild remarks from a drunken man, 
and a fugitive British criminal into the bargain, I put 
his wild sayings down as figures of speech that repre- 
sented some bitterness in his heart over memories of 
other days. By now he was drivelling copiously at the 
mouth, the mop of hair had fallen and hung in ringlets 
on his brow. He resembled some giant chimpanzee as 
he squatted before us, his narrow eyes glittering, his 
reddish beard bunched to his neck, as he looked at Deny 
and me and volleyed forth terrible oaths. 

*' ' Ow's ole Fleet Street ? Did yer chance ter know the 

barmaid at ole M 's, Alice M'Gill eh? She was a 

fine wench; hell, what a figure, a body, he! he! she 
had!^ 

" Then he yelped forth another volley of disgusting 
ribaldry that I wouldn't repeat if you wanted me to. 

" While all this was going on, my eyes were squinting 
round, wondering where on earth the girl was whom we 
had heard so much about. 

" Deny had started to sing with Yoraka, who had 
begun to sing in a drivelling voice: 

* There is a tavern in the town, in the town, 
Where my true loves sits him down, sits him down.' 

" Then Yoraka continued : 

* I'll *ang me 'arp oner weepin' wilier tree 
And may ther worle go well with thee.' 



YORAKA'S DAUGHTER 303 

"Not liking to be left out of the ensemble, as the 
assembled wives, girls, and servants beat their hands in 
a kind of chant, — I saw that the Britisher had taught 
them all that song, for they chanted it in a rather effective 
manner, — I took my flute from my breast pocket and 
commenced to play. It must have been an incongruous 
sight to see and to hear as that disgusting relic of our 
race squatted there, a grin on his blubbery jowls, as 
Deny, with lifted hand, sang and made eyes at the 
passable-looking girls of the royal retinue, and I stood, 
maestro fashion, my helmet hat bashed against the low 
roof, performing on the flute. It was whilst this quar- 
tette was in progress that the improbable occurred. Sud- 
denly the row of tattooed Fijians, who were huddled 
by the door of some inner compartment, all moved as 
though to make way for someone. The tappa curtains 
were drawn aside. I stopped my flute-playing; Deny 
opened his mouth and gasped aloud. There she stood, 
her pale blue eyes open with astonishment as she stared 
wistfully, like a shadowy-figure in a South Sea picture, 
on Deny and then on me. It was Yoraka's, that loath- 
some British criminaFs, daughter! 

" To my eyes, which had never before seen a pure- 
blooded white girl in native costume, expressing all the 
innocent abandonment of natural life in the pose of her 
figure and movement of her shapely limbs, she seemed 
the most impressively beautiful example of charming 
womanhood that my eyes had ever beheld. She was 
sun-tanned from head to feet, as though she had been 
varnished by some artist with a wondrous mixture that 
resembled a Cremona violin's hue mixed up with sunlight. 
The picturesque raiment of threaded fern-grass that 
swathed her thighs, like a loin-cloth, increased the beauty 
of the picture of that wild white girl who stood there 
before us. She looked like the pictures I have seen 



304 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

of Queen Boadicea. Her hair was a bright golden- 
bronze hue, hke that deep shade seen in the sunset's 
aftermath, her rough, loosened tresses falling down to 
the exquisitely curved shoulders, while one or two stray- 
locks fell in front, rippling down over her bosom to the 
tasselled raiment that fell in modest modulation to her 
knees. I had a suspicion that she had been told we 
were there in that palavana, that she had peeped through 
the tappa-curtains and seen us, and had then gone and 
arranged her secret toilet to please our eyes. I discovered 
afterwards that the hue of her hair and the length of 
her tresses were the pride of the whole tribe, the chiefs 
giving cattle to Yoraka that they might breathe through 
her tresses, and so treating her as a goddess ! 

" I think Deny's heart went out to her at once. How- 
ever, I know that when the strains of the flute mingled 
with the notes of the Scottish songs he sang that night, 
it was very hard to know which sounded the most be- 
seeching ! 

" That which struck me forcibly as I scanned the girl's 
clear eyes and fine brow was, that she should really be 
the daughter of the chimpanzee-like debauchee squatting 
there before us. But, recalling to mind the trite old 
saying, ' 'Tis a wise child that knows its own father,' I 
gave the girl the benefit of the doubt; nor did this 
opinion of mine cast a slur on the mother, for by the 
character of the man before us, none could blame her 
for bestowing her secret affections on another than her 
* rightful lord.' I confess that the girl had her failings. 
But they seemed only some natural expression of the 
innate instincts that are prominent in all the actions of 
her more fortunate, civilized white sisters. For, as I 
watched, it was quite evident that, notwithstanding 
Deny's boisterous manner as he ogled her, twirling his 
moustache and assuming a massive gallantry that I had 



YORAKA'S DAUGHTER 305 

not thought him capable of, she favoured his advances; 
indeed, she actually returned with interest his admiring 
looks as her eyes roamed up and down his giant figure, 
that swayed, drunken-wise, before her. 

" 'He! he! nicer girl — eh?' leered Yoraka, as he ob- 
served Deny's infatuated glances. 

** Then that heathen scoundrel lurched forward and 
pinched Sanga's leg again, putting on such an unholy 
look as he gazed on her, that I felt like giving him a 
punch under the ear. I've seen Chinamen, Niggers, 
Kaffirs, Turks, all grades of followers of Mohammed, 
Borneo cannibals, and what not, gaze on young native 
girls, but the look in that degenerate Britisher's eyes 
beat them all for downright wickedness. He looked like 
some personification of all the guile, hypocrisy, power, 
indescribable lust, and bestiality of white man, that have 
blighted native life in these isles, crammed into one skull, 
gleaming forth from one pair of terrible eyes, drivelling 
and chuckling from one mouth, expressed on one iron 
brow, voiced by one filthy, fang-like tongue. 

" Deny's dead now. I won't say a word of the further 
doings of that night. He'd been down with fever too; 
the weather was terribly muggy Into the bargain, and 
that does put a thirst into a man. And, moreover, not- 
withstanding the hideousness of all Yoraka's actions, and 
the fright that we both confessed we felt afterwards, 
through being In his power, there was something fascinat- 
ing in the novelty of it all. I think it took twelve high 
chiefs to carry Deny across the rara (space) and lay 
him down in the hut that had been allotted to him, Sanga, 
and my humble self. 

" I rubbed my eyes In the morning, wondering if I 
had dreamed it all. It was no dream though ; there was 
no mistaking the reality of the wild bird's song that sang 
in the mountain banyans just outside our hut door. Be- 



306 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

sides, there sat little Sanga, rubbing her sleepy eyes, and 
Deny was as real as real could be, as he sat there with 
his head in a large calabash of cold water, cooling his 
fevered skull! 

" We had no sooner eaten the food that the natives 
brought to us than we were outside in the clear morning 
air. Our great desire was to see that white girl again. 

" ' We must get her away from this hell of a hole,* 
said Deny, turning his eyes away from me as though 
he felt a bit ashamed of himself. Then he said : ' You 
got a bit rocky last night, didn't you, pal ? ' 

" * A bit rocky ! ' said I, feeling disgusted at such an 
insinuation from my comrade, who had lowered my 
prestige in that village by his drunken behaviour the 
night before. But I said nothing. I saw how the wind 
blew. And it says something for Deny that he was 
enough ashamed of himself to try and make out that I 
was as bad as he. 

" I won't go into all the details as to how we finally 
got to know where the girl was to be found. It will 
be sufficient to say, that Deny gave two natives plugs 
of tobacco and promised them another drink from his 
rum-flask if they*d lead us to the den where the girl 
resided. For I must tell you that we had found out 
by the merest chance that the girl did not live with 
her parent, but dwelt at the other end of the village, 
where the high chiefs resided. 

" As the natives led us across the cleared village space, 
we wondered what the girl would think to see us so 
eager to seek her presence. At last we stood outside a 
thatched den, just on the outskirts of the village. 

** * She in there, Marama, savvy? * 

" In a moment Deny and I made up our minds and 
entered the hut. The first thing that I did was to upset 
a cradle wherein lay two whitish-looking kiddies. 



YORAKA'S DAUGHTER 307 

"'Look like damned half-caste kids,' said Deny, as 
we cursed and made a swift attempt to pick them up 
before the distracted mother appeared. They opened 
their reddish mouths like two young crows, and made 
terrific caw-like sounds. Deny put his hand over one's 
mouth ! 

" Suddenly we felt a draught, the tappa-curtain was 
flung aside, the white girl stood before us, her eyes 
blazing as we both held the kids! She really did look 
like a wild girl, as she stood there before us with her 
mouth open, in deshabille, an old torn sulu dangling to 
her thighs. For a moment I felt embarrassed as I looked 
at her bare bosom. Then I swiftly realized that she 
did not understand the novelty of the sight, — a girl of 
our race dressed like that, showing so much of what 
should have been her secret toilet, to say the least. 

" Perhaps she saw the romantic light in Deny's eyes 
as she stared up at our flushed faces. Anyway, she 
cooled down, and asked us into her homestead. 

" Then she looked up at us in a startled way, and 
said, * You be killer ; go way ! go way 1 ' 

" That was -the first thing she said, as we got out of 
earshot of the sly-looking old hags who were leaning 
against the palms smoking cigarettes. 

" * We've come to save you ! — to take you away from 
this village,' whispered Deny, giving her a ravishing 
look. * Take you away to another country where the 
white men and women live, — understand ? — savvy ? ' con- 
tinued Deny, as the girl looked up and simply stared 
at us. 

"At first we thought it might be some haunting re- 
membrance of her childhood days in England that made 
her stare so. It may have been so. However, the only 
response she made was to put forth her hand and com- 
mence to caress the pendant, the brass compass, that 



308 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

dangled at the end of my silver watch chain! Then 
she giggled and showed us her babies ! 

" ' Yours ! ' almost yelled Deny. 

*' The scales fell from our eyes when we learnt from 
her own lips that those pallid, demon-like-looking kids 
were hers — twins too! 

" * Where's he ? ' we both ejaculated in a tense whisper, 
as we looked around. 

'* She shook her head, did not understand. 

" ' The old man, your husband ? — the father of the 
kids ? ' said Deny, trying to make her understand. 

" Pointing to the floor, she said, ' He go under, goodee 
job tooer ! ^ 

'' ' Dead ! ' was Deny's and my comment. Nor did 
we shed any tears over the dead heathen's demise, I 
can tell you. 

" There she stood before us, innocent-looking as a 
child, a splendid specimen of what an English girl was 
like when reared up as a savage. Even as I watched, 
I thought of the interest she would create in the souls 
of those who went in for anthropology. 

" I discerned at a glance that she had the instincts of 
a white woman the world over. As she stared at us 
she hastily put her hand up to her hair \to see if the 
hibiscus blossoms were in an attractive position. As 
she squatted on the mat and boldly looked into our eyes, 
she pulled her picturesque raiment down over the curves 
of her knees. * That's something that a native woman 
wouldn't do,' was my mental comment. That one little 
action convinced me that there is an inherent modesty 
in women of the white races that is not conspicuous in 
many of the brown races. For, how did she know that 
women of our race wore long dresses? All the native 
women about her wore barely anything at all ! Besides, 
there was the swift, instinctive action of an act that could 



YORAKA'S DAUGHTER 309 

only be the result of inherent modesty. Knowing the 
chance I had of testing the difference between the white 
and the brown races, I went through all sorts of artful 
dodges to find out the various shades of her character. 
I put my hand out in a caressing way, softly touching 
her fingers so that she might be assured that I was 
there only out of friendship. Deny did the same. 

" To our delight she repsonded by saying, * Yorana, 
Papalagi,' and then, in a soft, fawning, cat-like way, 
returned the caress, touched my wrist, looked into my 
eyes, and murmured, * Oh, whi ! whi, nicer,' alluding to 
the whiteness of my flesh just up under my coat-sleeve. 
Then, in a really fascinating way, she admired the 
smoothness of our boyish faces; put her fingers through 
my golden hair; — I had hair then." (He was bald as 
a badger as he sat there telling us these things.) " Then 
Deny took the flask from his pocket and, to my surprise, 
asked her to take a nip of rum! She gave one sip, and 
made a wry face as she spat the liquid out. 

" I looked into her eyes, held her hand, and said : 

" * Wouldn't you like to leave this village and go across 
the seas to your own people, see the big cities, large 
buildings ? ' 

" She only stared at me. I saw that it was all Greek 
to her. Then I tried to explain civilization to her. I told 
her that women wore beautiful silken robes to the feet, 
robes that were adorned with flashing gems. Her eyes 
sparkled with wonder for a while. She seemed to show 
true interest only when I described English life, told 
of the comfortable, cosy homes, the hearth-fires in cold 
weather, and of the little children. Deny looked up at 
me, noticed my earnest manner, and thought I was mad. 
So he said after. Sanga squatted just behind us the 
whole time, staring at the girl with wonder in her eyes, 
and never said one word. 



310 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

" As I told her these things, I watched for some evi- 
dence of a desire in her heart to come with us; but the 
only effect it seemed to have on her was that which one 
notices on a child when it listens to a fairy story. There 
was something infinitely sad about it all as she sat there 
— a girl of our race, lost to the world, irreclaimable, 
doomed to live on in that hell of a village, — a girl with 
natural beauty shining from her soft, almost wistful- 
looking eyes. The wind blew gently through the door- 
way, the palms sighed mournfully on the mountain slopes, 
and it seemed that the very zephyrs caressed her with 
sorrow as they touched the picturesque robe she had put 
on since we had arrived. 

" I can never tell you how Deny and I appealed to 
that girl, beseeching her to come away with us. For a 
moment she gazed at us as though in grief, then she put 
forth her hand and appealed to Deny to give her one 
of his coat buttons. In a moment my pal had ripped 
a button off and handed it to her. She held it up in 
the ray of sunlight that trickled through the doorway, 
and gave a childish cry of pleasure. 

" * Look at her feet,' said Deny. 

" I had never seen such pretty feet before. The nails 
were like pearls, and, through the foot having never been 
cramped up in boots, the toes were exquisitely curved, 
the lower contours running up and finishing at the ankles 
in a charming way. Deny took 'the liberty of tenderly 
holding her leg up so that I might admire the curves 
of the calf, the perfect roundness of the knee. She kept 
a wary eye on him : I'm sure that zvas the look that I 
noticed in her eyes. Then, on hearing our impassioned 
exclamations, and seeing the apprecia'tive glances of our 
eyes over the beauty of her shape, she gave in; vanity 
was stronger than modesty. Then Deny spoilt it all ; as 
he held the leg in a graceful position, he deliberately 



YORAKA'S DAUGHTER 311 

kissed the knee ! That's what my eyes saw ! Deny swore 
'that it was a mistake, that he fell forward. But I knew 
Deny well enough, and never before saw anything so 
deliberate in the way of impassioned acts. 

" From that moment she became reserved in her atti- 
tude and manner. But, still, I noticed that her eyes 
softly gleamed as Deny and I and Sanga crept out of the 
door to answer the command of Yoraka. It was nearly 
dusk then, and we had to be in Yoraka's presence by 
dark. 

" It was quite dark when we again stood outside 
Yoraka's palatial hut, hesitating before we entered. 
Then, seeing no way out of it, we entered that home 
of licentiousness. All the hanging coco-nut-oil lamps 
were ablaze as w^e stood there once more in the presence 
of Yoraka, the native girls all staring at us. I think that 
I preferred the sight of <them to the drunken ribaldry of 
that British heathen. There was something terrible in 
his gaze as he looked up at us. I saw the domineering 
gaze of savagery staring from those cold, blue, British 
eyes. All the inherent might of my own race — the might 
that had overthrown nation after nation, conquered the 
world, making all the primitive tribes suppliant at her 
Imperial Feet — seemed to shine forth in the terrible 
glare of that red-bearded Britisher as he stared at us 
with sober eyes! By the dim light of the oil-lamps I 
discerned the tattoo that marked his massive chest and 
shoulders. It seemed impossible that he was a white 
man at all, so villainous did he look. Then he com- 
menced to ask a thousand questions as to what we wanted 
with him. We told him we didn't want anything of him. 
Deny came to the rescue like a brick, for Yoraka was get- 
ting fierce; he handed him the remainder of his rum. 
In a moment the man seemed to forget his suspicions; 
he smacked his lips, looked up, and gripped Deny's hand. 



312 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

After that he drank more toddy. He was soon drivelHng 
drunk again. I shall never forget that night if I live 
to be a thousand years old. As the tribal girls waited 
on him, he roared forth disgusting songs — putting words 
of his own to them — and at each loathsome epithet spat 
up in the faces of the frightened harem-women. Looking 
up into my face he chuckled and roared out uproariously, 
making remarks about civilized life. 

'* * Go back ter your ole Queen on the Thames ! He ! 
he! Vd giver 'er 

" * Ugh ! Ugh ! who' thater girl ? She belonger you ? 
I eater better girler than tthat on toast ! Savvy ? * 

" Still I did not gather the terrible import of his re- 
marks as he looked up, drivelling spittle from betel-nut 
between his clenched black teeth, and pinched pret?ty 
Sanga*s soft arms! 

"* Comer way! Comer way! Master, don't your 
know?' whispered little Sanga, inclining her curly head 
sideways as she slightly lifted her pretty eyes, giving me 
a meaning look. 

" But still Deny stared and I stared, as Yoraka 
grovelled on his belly and made loathsome remarks "to the 
women around him. Once more he sought Deny's con- 
versation, and plied him with that vile toddy stuff. The 
night was far advanced when the great climax came. 
Yoraka was poking Deny in the ribs, and Deny was nudg- 
ing Yoraka. The savage Britisher's brain had once more 
become reminiscent, for he was shouting and yelling dis- 
gusting ribaldry about his memories of London, Fleet 
Street, the Strand, and Marble Arch. Then he seemed 
to become breathless through his own obscenity. He 
drivelled at the mouth, his head swaying like an imbecile 
as he lurched forward on his stomach. Then, leaning 
forward, he took hold of Sanga's little robe, looked with 
some terrible meaning into her eyes, took hold of her 



YORAKA'S DAUGHTER 313 

arm's soft, semi-white flesh between his thumb and fore- 
finger — and pinched it deliciously! 

'* His hideous mouth was emitting spittle from between 
the gaps of his filthy betel-nut-blackened teeth. I dis- 
tinctly saw him give a fiendish, hungry leer at the girl 
as he stroked her leg and said something very un- 
guardedly about * Long pig ! ' and chuckled * Kai ! kai ! 
I eater nicer girler ! ' He was looking up into Deny's 
astonished face as he said that. Then he lifted his 
drunken eyes to my comrade and said, 'You giver girler 
me ? I make you great chief here ! * 

"* Heavens!* gasped Deny, as he looked at me. 
* Why, he's a cannibal!' 

" Before I knew, or even realized the terror of the 
whole business, Deny had expressed his horror of that 
fiend's remarks in a most forcible way. It all looked like 
some unreal picture of horror as Yoraka crouched there, 
grovelling on his stomach, the rows of coco-nut-oil lamps 
sending a ghastly, unreal glare over his face and on the 
barbarian furniture, boxes, ornamental matting, cala- 
bashes, and human skulls that hung on the walls. He 
was paralyzed! — as though he'd had a stroke and had 
died with his mouth and eyes still half-open with aston- 
ishment. The native girls, who had been bringing in 
platters of cooked yams and gourds of toddy, stood 
transfixed, like wonderful life-like statues of terra-cotta 
hue, so still did they all stand there in the dim light, 
some with arms still outstretched, one leg placed for- 
ward, one arm uplifted, their eyes glassy, petrified with 
astonishment — so sudden was the onslaught ! 

** That representative of a British criminal in savage 
'state,' rolled his eyes thrice; he seemed to strive to 
believe his own senses; his mouth was wide open with 
astonishment and pain, revealing his sharp, dirty teeth, 
as crash ! a second blow knocked them down his throat I 



SU SOUTH SEA FOAM 

" * Ugh I Ugh ! ' came like vomited sound from that 
devil's entrails as Deny stood there at his full height, 
his eyes afire with rage and drink. My helmet hat was 
bashed down over my eyes as I leapt forward to stay 
Deny from quite killing our host. In a flash I saw that 
Deny's impulsiveness would place us at the mercy of the 
whole tribe. But what cared old Deny? — not a damn! 
He proceeded to demolish Yoraka's palavana. The na- 
tive girls, seeing their master prostrated, recovered and 
bolted! Catching hold of the central post, that was the 
mainstay for the hut's support, Deny tore it right out 
of the ground — crash! the roof had fallen on the top 
of us! 

" In the pandemonium that followed, amid the wild 
yells of Yoraka, the screams of his concubines and chil- 
dren, I could hardly collect my senses. Sanga was still 
trembling beside me, was clutching my hand. We were 
on our stomachs, the heavy debris, planks, etc., nearly 
smothering us. 

" * Comer, Master ! ' murmured Sanga, as she tugged 
my coat and wriggled on. By some wonderful instinct 
she found a pathway through that terror-stricken group 
of clutching figures, all huddled in mad terror to get out 
of the smothering debris into the open air. Outside the 
night was pitch-black, not a star relieving the intense 
overhead dark as I peered around, calling aloud to my 
comrade, * Deny ! Deny ! ' 

" As I stood 'there, hesitating, for I could not rush off 
into the forest and leave a pal like that, I felt something 
brush against me, like the rushing of a wind. It was a 
regiment of those damned cannibals. They had rushed 
forth from their huts to rescue their master, the White 
Roko, from the murderous hands of the two Papalagis. 
They were evidently seeking to locate the exact spot of 
our host's late homestead ! 



YORAKA'S DAUGHTER 315 

" *Comer way, Master ! They killer you ! ' said little 
Sanga, as she tugged my hand, and I glared round in the 
darkness, envying that little one's all-seeing eyes in the 
gloom. I felt the exultation of battle seize my soul. I 
no longer regretted the fact that Deny had pulled down 
that homestead of unbridled lust about the b canni- 
bal Englishman's ears! I rushed forward, calling for 
my pal. Suddenly I collided with the soft, naked bodies 
of those who were seeking Deny and myself. I heard 
Deny*s voice just by me. ' Thank God he's all right,' 
was my mental comment. Then, to my astonishment, I 
heard Deny roaring forth an old sea chanty at the top 
of his voice as he clubbed away at the natives in the 
darkness ! * O for Rio Grande ! ' came to my ears as I 
too entered the fray, and wondered if the whole business 
was some nightmare. My strength was superhuman. 
For I tell you I was in a terrible funk, and there's nothing 
like true, unadulterated funk to make a man brave as 
a lion, and fight splendidly for his own life! 

" I had no w^eapon whatsoever to defend myself with. 
Deny had a club, I know. Feeling a mass of tangled 
arms clutching for me in the dark, I made a dive and, 
by good luck, caught what I meant to use as a club — it 
was a soft, shppery, nude savage ! I felt the bones creak 
as I swung that living weapon round and round and 
aimed unseen blows at the bodies of the savages 
who tried to catch hold of me in that inky dark- 
ness. 

" * Go it, pal ! * yelled Deny. Crash ! came the sound 
of his falling club, then a groan ; another had gone under. 
Again and again came howls of pain to my ears as the 
natives fell to the forest floor before my tremendous 
onslaught as I wielded that soft, bulky weapon — a weapon 
that gave terrified shrieks as it attempted to save itself, 
for the poor devil made frantic clutches at the bodies 



316 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

I swung him towards as his hands tore at their mops of 
hair in terror. 

" Then Deny came to my assistance, just in time too. 
But though I'd got a nasty knock on the head and nearly 
fell, I managed to follow Deny and Sanga as they called 
me. Then the three of us rushed away down the slopes. 
By daybreak we were miles away from that cursed vil- 
lage. And I don't think we stopped more than an hour 
to rest before we got down to the seaboard. 

" When we arrived back in Levuka we made up our 
minds to go out to the man-o'-war boat that was lying 
out in the bay, and tell them about Yoraka and his 
daughter up there in the Kai Tholos village. We were 
determined to get our own back off thai: bloodthirsty 
Britisher, We decided to let the matter slide for a day 
or so. Deny had got a blow on the back of the head 
during the melee and wanted to sleep for a day or so 
before he had any more excitement. 

" It was during this interval that that happened which 
is history now. It was like this. Some sailors from a 
man-o'-war — three, I think — had gone off up in the moun- 
tains on a spree. They were never heard of again. So 
Commander Goodenough, of the British man-o'-war lying 
off Levuka, sent a crew of Jack Tars up to the tribal 
villages of the mountains to give them a lesson and see 
if they could hear anything of the missing men. They 
blew the Kai Tholos villages to smithereens! And it is 
common knowledge amongst the missionaries and traders 
to this day that, when they searched amongst the debris, 
to see if they could find any trace of their comrades, 
they came across the body of a white girl, clad in bar- 
barian costume and riddled with bullets. Just by her 
side was the body of a white man, clad in a sulu gown. 
He was tattooed and sunburnt, but there was no mistake 
about his being a white man. They buried them both up 



YORAKA'S DAUGHTER 317 

there in the mountains, and put a cross on the girl's 
grave; no name, just the date of the day when they had 
found her. Then they buried the man by her side, and, 
as he was a Britisher, they sounded the Last Post and 
fired a volley over his grave. And Deny wrapped him 
up in the Union Jack ! " 

"Well, now! if that's not the irony of fate, and the 
way of this world all over!" w^as all I could mutter, 

as G knocked the ashes out of his pipe and finished 

his story, took his flute from his pocket, and began to 
warble sweetly, " Scenes that are brightest." 

G was a kind of hero to O'Hara and myself after 

that. We followed him about, and felt the glamour of 
romance shine whenever we stood in his remarkable 
presence. I think it was the very nexjt day that he took 
us down the river, then across country to a native village, 
and introduced us both to a fine-looking, native woman. 

She treated us in good style when G told her that 

we were his friends. I noticed that she looked up into 
his eyes as though she were some sister of his. 

"Who is she?" I ventured to ask him at last. 

" It's her, — the kid we took up into the Kai Tholos 
mountains that time, — little Sanga," he replied. 



CHAPTER XVII. SOOGY, CHILD OF POETRY 

Poetry's Legitimate Child — Music's Fairyland — A Civi- 
lized Old Man of the Sea — A Clerical Hat is the Symbol 
of Modern Religion. 

TT AD it not been for men like D and many other 

•*- -'' striking personalities who enlivened the Organiza- 
tion, we should have cleared out of it sooner than we did. 
We were considerably in debt to the host of that Sailors' 
Home, too. There were no certified bailiffs in the South 
Seas, but if one's account was overdue, credit was taken 
out of the debtor in a novel manner. Bones discovered 
that one of his customers owed him about fifty dollars 
for board. 

" Goying ter pye up? " said he laconically. 

" Hain't gotter cent ter bless meself with till I gets 
an adwance note," replied the stranded one. There was 
no further parley on the subject. Bones simply caught 
the culprit by the scruff of the neck, placed one knee in 
the middle of his back, and then, crash! sent the un- 
fortunate devil through the South Sea bankrupltcy court 
at the end of his boot — right through the open door — 
bang! on to the sward. And the discharged bankrupt, 
out of debt, went his way, unworried, free from all his 
late liabilities.. Once or twice there was a fight when 
the members took sides on behalf of someone who could 
not pay his way; hats, rum mugs, and tin pots would 
fly about, but it was soon all over. They would bind 
up each other's wounds, shake hands all round, and end 
up in a tremendous drinking bout. Sometimes highly 
cultured men would step out of the great unknown into 

318 



SOOGY, CHILD OF POETRY 319 

that shanty's door — actors, musicians, poets, and sad- 
looking literary men, who would imbibe rum and prove 
highly entertaining. Some had fine voices, others recited 
Hamlet, or made the place hum with laughter ere they 
drank up, clinked their glass in some toast, and then, to 
the cry of ** God speed," once more departed out into the 
great unknown. 

O'Hara and I would go wandering through the forests, 
visiting the various tribal villages by the coffee planta- 
tions. On these wanderings we were accompanied by 
our faithful little bodyguard, Soogy, a little native half- 
caste boy. He was a mystical little beggar, not only in 
his ways but in his origin. No one knew where he came 
from. 

"You no father? No mother, Soogy?" 

He shook his curly head and said : " No ; me come 
down, dropper from sky ! " 

He had beautiful eyes, and by the paleness of his com- 
plexion one easily concluded that he had European blood 
in his veins. He was about eight years old. Whenever 
I played the violin he would at once put his little chin 

on his knees and commence singing. Even G , who 

had had a lot to do with native youngsters, said that 
Soogy was a wonder. I had no doubt at all that the 
child was a genius. His mother must have lived in a 
cave within sound of the seas just before he was born, 
for music was alive in his soul. His brain was splashed 
over with moonlight, there was no doubt about that. 

" Where did you learn that melody, Soogy? " I'd say, 
when he suddenly burst forth and sang some sweet 
strain with a lingering, haunting note of sadness running 
through it. He would simply look up, shake his curly 
head, and wonder what I meant by asking him where 
his little brain learned its own mysterious music from. 

" Looks older than he is," said O'Hara. " Got eyes 



320 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

like a blessed girl," my pal continued, as Soogy fondled 
my hand and stared up into my face, a weird look in 
his pretty eyes. I could not make it out; but when that 
kiddie came up to me in the forest, or crept into my 
hut-room, an old broken-down shack near the river, the 
world would change, the sun shine with a mysterious 
shadowy light, a kind of poetic atmosphere pervading 
the deep gloom of the woods. I was not surprised when 
O'Hara said : 

" Begorra, pal, I wish that kiddie would keep away ; 
he's like some little beggar of a ghost hanging around. 
Fm sure he'll bring us bad luck." 

" Don't be a fool. How can a little child influence 
our ways or alter what must happen to-morrow ? " I 
replied, as the child noticed the angry look in my com- 
rade's eyes, and looked up to see if I too wanted him 
to go away. 

I didn't send him away, though. To tell the truth, 
I came under the mystic spell of that weird child of the 
forest. Sometimes I'd go out of earshot of all the world, 
accompanied by that mysterious little beggar, and, under 
the banyans by the lagoon, as fireflies danced in the 
bamboos, I'd play the violin while he danced. Even 
the cockatoos, as they cried out, " Ka ka — ka to wooh ! 
ka! ka! ka! to wooh!" seemed to have come under 
the influence of Soogy's songs. Somehow, the thought 
of the world beyond the solitude of that forest seemed to 
fall away; I would half imagine that Soogy and I sat 
side by side in some mossy fairy-wood of a world far 
beyond the stars. We would seem to be two mighty 
maestros of heathenland, both of us enthroned on the 
highest pinnacles of fame as I sat there, that weird little 
kiddie singing wondrous melodies and dancing. It was 
nothing strange to me when the Old-Man-Frog looked 
out of the moonlit marsh flowers in surprise, opened its 



SOOGY, CHILD OF POETRY 321 

weird-slit mouth, and chanlted a wonderful accompani- 
ment in perfect tempo as Soogy danced. Then some 
strange thing with a green, semi-human face would peep 
out of the vatu weeds and clang its tiny cymbals. 

Knowing that the commonplace conception of reality 
does not exist at all, and that we mortals only see a 
nose, a mouth, a glance of the eyes — indeed, the Universe 
itself — in the relation that it assumes by contact with 
one's inner self, I felt no wonder as Soogy danced be- 
neath the moonlit palms, no Soogy at all, but a some- 
thing weirdly beautiful dancing as I played the violin 
in the shadowland of my own mad eyes, a something 
that looked to me like two fallen stars fixed in a wonder- 
ful little receptacle called a skull poised on swaying, dusky 
limbs, and possessing a sweet-voiced tongue. 

The very forest trees became etherealized to my eyes 
as their big heads moved and sighed to the soughing 
night winds, humming out half-forgotten memories of 
cherished things. And when those old trees tenderly 
waved their arms over the weird child, then took part- 
ners, and commenced to waltz slowly, I didn't wonder 
much; I still played on, wailing forth the magical melo- 
dies that Soogy sang to my listening ears. It was clear 
enough that the child had never been taught dancing 
in any mortal school, for, as his small limbs moved in 
rhythmical motion, they swerved not one bit from the 
tempo of the swaying forest flowers as the shifting fingers 
of the zephyrs tossed them gently one way, and then 
softly the other way. And my chagrin was complete 
when I realized that my cultured ear served only to 
empower me with discernment enough to know that, as 
a conductor of the most subtle movements in that great 
orchestra of the forest-night and mighty, waltzing trees, 
I was simply nowhere where that conductor, an Old-Man- 
Frog, was concerned, as, with his wonderful clappers 



322 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

going " Click-er-tee-clack ! currh ! currh ! clack-er to- 
clack," he got the most marvellous, subtle musical effects 
from that wonderful ensemble. The pathos of the tiny 
streamlet's voice as it hurried by us, then ran with fright 
under the forest trees and leapt into the sea, convinced me 
that I was beautifully mad — as mad as I am now deadly 
sane. It may have been some inherited madness, or 
possibly Soogy had some magnetic influence over me. I 
know not which it was. But I do know that, sometimes 
when I lay half asleep under the ndrala trees of the 
moonlit forest, he would sit singing wonderful songs for 
my half -sleeping ears — songs that would seem to drift 
my life across into unremembered ages till I became one 
with the stars and the music of the infinite. The very 
caves along the shore of my bedroom floor seemed to 
sing out some old sorrow as he came, night after night, 
creeping out of the forest like some little phantom child, 
to make my mossy bed ! 

Such a one was Soogy. I never dreamed that such 
sorrow could come to one through knowing a little child 
— sorrow that made my heart ache for many a day. The 
whole trouble came about through an old man suddenly 
arriving at the Organization just when O'Hara and I 
had determined to get a ship and clear out for Nuka 
Hiva. We were both tired out, had been sauntering 
about amongst the villages, and were glad enough to 
get back to the Organization's hospitable roof; but, just 
as we were approaching the door, we heard a terrible 
row in progress. It appeared that someone had robbed 
the aforesaid old man of his valuable pocketbook. There 
he stood, by the wide-open door, waving his hands in 
despair, shouting out: 

" I'll give a hundred pounds to the one who finds my 
pocketbook.'* 

He was a strange-looking old fellow. He wore a 



SOOGY, CHILD OF POETRY 323 

clerical hat, a stiff, high collar, and grey side-whiskers; 
and he was purple to the forehead as he stood there just 
beneath the low-roof saloon, shouting: 

" Where's my pocketbook? " 

O'Hara and I stared with astonishment to see that 
old gent, so fashionably attired, a bullet hole in his hat, 
standing up for himself, defiantly facing the whole 
damned crew of sun-tanned, villainous-looking men as 
they thrust their faces, chins, and fists out of the door, 
and looked scornfully at the grand old man! Suddenly 
Tanner Bolt, who had his nose missing and had a face 
like a diseased Chinaman, stepped forward and knocked 
the old fellow's hat off. O'Hara and I, not liking such 
a cowardly act, immediately sided with the new-comer, 
who had sought protection from justice in that forest 
hermitage. Bones regarded O'Hara and me rather 
fiercely for a moment, then, whipping his revolver out, 
turned to the men and roared: 

'' I'll shoot the first God-damned rogue who touches 
any of *em.'* 

Then the hullabaloo subsided. After that O'Hara and 

I made tracks outside, as G went in to have his 

nap on the saloon settee. The old gent followed us 
outside. 

" A lot of rogues and thieves, that's what they are," 
he almost squeaked, as he shook his fist at the half-hidden 
den, his false teeth dropping on the sward, so violent 
was his rage as he shook from head to feet. 

" Do you chaps belong to them? " said he, as he sur- 
veyed us critically. 

''No, thank you!'' 

The emphatic note of my reply seemed to change the 
old man's manner immediately, and make him glad to 
give that confidence that so relieves mortals when they 
have the world against them. 



324 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

" A man enticed me up here from S , telling me 

that I could wait here in comfort till the 'Frisco boat 

arrived at S . I want to get to San Francisco; got 

business there," he hurriedly added, as he readjusted his 
pince-nez. 

It was a bit of an effort for us to keep serious-looking 
and hide the fact that we well knew that 'Frisco was the 
much-sought high road to the No-Extradition Ports. 

" Get me out of this hole and I'll give you a present 
of fifty pounds,'* said the old fellow, as he gripped my 
hand and peered about in a neurotic manner. 

O'Hara and I looked into one another's eyes. " Fifty 
pounds ! " I heard O'Hara's soul gasp as mine re-echoed 
it. We had been on long voyages, working like slaves 
for a mere pittance too! 

" Don't say a word to anyone. I can get you away 
from here safely," said O'Hara, giving him a quiet wink 
as Bones came out of the Organization door. 

" Here's yer d pocketbook," said he, as he threw 

something in the direction of the old gent. 

That aged, fugitive bank-manager nearly fell forward 
on to his knees in thanksgiving when he opened the 
pocketbook and discovered his papers intact. 

As Soogy came rushing out of the forest and com- 
menced to gambol by us, Bones called the old man, took 
him under the breadfruits, and whispered to him. We 
saw the old gent take Bones' hand impulsively in his 
own and vigorously shake it. Bones had some sense of 
honour, and I have no doubt that he had told the new- 
comer that he would see that he was not molested by the 
members of the shanty again. 

It was wonderful how everything quieted down after 
that bit of excitement. The old gent imbibed a con- 
siderable amount of whisky, told the guilty men that he 
forgave them, shook their hands across the long bench- 



SOOGY, CHILD OF POETRY 325 

table, and drank their health. The humour of it all 
even struck those seasoned criminals. I saw them grin 
from ear to ear. It was a sight to see those rows of 
fierce, bearded faces as they sat there, clad in their red 
shirts and belted pants, the whole scene dimly lit up 
by the swinging candles that hung in the empty gin 
bottles just overhead, every sinful eye alert as the old 
man shook his finger. 

That old gent's main weakness was whisky and rum. 
Most probably it was the main cause of his taking the 
desperate chance that brought him as a fugitive from 
justice across the seas. He sang a song to those rough 
men; his voice was strangely mellow and sweet, be- 
coming pathetic as the fumes got thicker in his sinful 
head — who knows what thoughts flashed through his 
drunken dreams? 

Tanner Bolt, Lively Humper, and Jimmy Scratch 
played their mouth-organs and banjos as the wild chorus 
of those men shook the shanty. Then Soogy came in 
and did a dance on the table. I noticed that even those 
drunken men seemed to come under the spell of that 
kid's song and dance. As for the old gent, he kept 
taking out his watch, keying it up, and staring with his 
mouth open as he watched the child's bright eyes and his 
wonderful dancing. I think the old man was trying 
to recall his senses, wondering who he was, what he 
was doing there with those wild-looking men as they 
encored that mysterious child. Then his besotted head 
fell forward and he dropped off asleep. And when I 
think of all that happened through him, how the innocent 
were punished for the sins of the guilty, I wish that he 
had never awakened again. But there, I mustn't be too 
hard on him; he never made himself, and he suffered too. 



CHAPTER XVIII. RETROSPECT 

The Modern Old Man of the Sea— Fifty Pounds !— A 
Human Octopus — Adrift at Sea — Sorrow — Saved — In 
Tonga — Our Old Man's last Hiding-place — Retrospect. 

THE perspective of things as seen after a lapse of 
years seems gifted with a visionary light that has 
no relation to the normal outlook of the intellect. The 
most commonplace objects and incidents, when seen and 
thought over in the pale light of memory, become tinged 
with that indefinable glamour, that something which men 
call poetry. A wind-blown ship far at sea with trailing 
spars and torn sails beating its way into the sunset; a 
bird travelling silently across a foreign tropic sky; a 
wild girl singing by a lagoon; a dead tree tossing its 
arms on a windy hill; an old gentleman with a little 
clerical hat bashed over his eyes; the remembrance of a 
tiny, golden-eyed girl, with a bit of blue ribbon in her hair 
as she sprang into your farewell arms when you said 
good-bye and went off, a boy, on your first voyage to 
sea — I say, all these things seem to be the landmarks, 
the promontories of the shores one has hugged as one 
sailed across the wild seas of life. 

And, in looking back, that old gent of the South Sea 
Organization seems to stand out, not so much as a 
wicked, eccentric individual, as he does of a type that 
represents nine-tenths of the men whom one is doomed 
to knock up against in one*s pilgrimage along this shore 
of hope and sudden chills, wrecks, and buffeted dreams. 

I know that that old man came to us in the guise of a 
benefactor who would bestow wealth on O'Hara and on 

326 



RETROSPECT 327 

me, whereas he turned out to be a Nemesis wrapt up 
in the vilest disguise, a Nemesis who seemed to take some 
vindictive dehght in the frailties of youth, and was guilty 
of unwarrantable cruelty to a child's innocence. I have 
sometimes thought that neither he, nor the Organization 
itself, ever existed in this world as men know things to 
exist; that I once lived in a phantasmagorial world of 
ghostly sunlight and shadow that was haunted by an 
aged man who wore side whiskers, clung to my back 
like an Old Man of the Sea, and successfully throttled 
my faith in supreme goodness. It was our lack of funds 
and the old man's abundant wealth that brought the whole 
business about. And, though I know that the lack of 
funds on 'the one side and an abundance of funds on 
the other side has brought about the direst disasters be- 
neath the sun, still, I feel that the sorrow that came to 
us through that old fellow is worth recording. 

I think it was the very next day that O'Hara and I 
saw our chance of luring the old gentleman away from 
the Organization to see if he was really in earnest about 
that fifty pounds he said he would give to the first one 
who got him safely away. In the little that we had seen 
of him we observed that he was weak where native girls 
and dancing-women were concerned. When O'Hara had 
acquainted him with the fact that there was a great 
tribal-dance on down in the village of Takarora, that 
the chiefs were going to pow-wow and the meke-girls eat 
fire and dance, he took hold of our hands, and begged 
us to take him to see the sight. 

" I've read a bit about these people in books, but, dear 
boys, I'd really like to see the grandeur of primitive life 
in the natural state." So spake that old man. Then off 
we went, with the old gent in our company, down the 
forest track. 

" I never did see a place like this," said O'Hara, as we 



328 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

both gave a startled jump — two dusky, faun-like crea- 
tures had suddenly peered through the tasi-ferns and 
exotic convolvulus festoons, and, seeing our white faecs, 
had given a scream and sped off to their homestead in 
the pagan village. The old gentleman placed his hand 
on his heart, took a swill from his brandy-flask, and 
said it was enough to give one syncope to live in such 
a blasted heathenland. Then he reshaped his clerical hat, 
that had been bashed in by a banyan bough, and once 
more followed us through the interminable growth of 
camphor, sago-palm, and all that mysterious assemblage 
of twisting trunks and vines that nature fashions where 
the sunlight burns with fiery heat. 

When we got to the native village the girls, clad in 
decorative festival costume, were dancing away in full 
swing. On the forum-lecture-stump that faced the village 
green stood some pagan philosopher, spouting for all he 
was worth about the new edict passed by the mission- 
aries — prohibition of rum-selling on Sundays. 

"What's he saying, Soogy?" said I, as that haunting 
kiddie rushed up to us, for we never could get rid of him. 
Then Soogy told me, in pigeon English, that the old 
pagan chief was shouting: 

" Down with the brown man's burden ! Down with 
the cursed white man wrapped in clothes ! " 

I must admit he looked a nasty old heathen as he put 
forth his dark chin, lifted his face to the forest roof, and 
called on the old heathen gods to hear the prayers of their 
faithful child. When he had finished he took a huge 
nip from the kava calabash, and the native girls com- 
menced to give a fascinating two-step whilst the next 
chief oiled his hair and prepared for a speech. 

" Now's your chance ! " said I to O'Hara, for the old 
gentleman seemed in the most convivial of moods as he 
stared at the dancing maids. I confess that I was not 



RETROSPECT 329 

good at giving a hint to a man who had promised fifty 
pounds if a certain thing was done for him and had 
apparently forgotten all about his promise. As O'Hara 
sidled up to the old gentleman^s side, I remained within 
comfortable earshot. 

** Hard times these," said my pal, as he looked first 
towards the old man and then towards the dancers. Still 
the old fellow stared in a vacant way, fingered and re- 
adjusted his pince-nez as the stout chiefess did a most 
peculiar somersault while performing the heathen tango. 
O'Hara got desperate; it got on his mettle to be ignored 
like that. He sidled up a little closer to the old man, 
and I distinctly heard him say, as he stared in an absent- 
minded way in front of himself: "Hard times these; 
wish there was a chance of getting fifty pounds, some- 
how!" 

It wanted some pluck to give a hint like that, I can tell 
you. The old fellow had a freezing way with him too. 
Polish does hang on one when one is born where the 
missing bank-managers hail from. Yet O'Hara did the 
trick; for the old fellow stared on for a long time as 
though he'd not heard a word, then he turned quietly 
to my comrade and said : " I suppose you really could 
get me safely away to Lakemba, so that I could catch 
the next boat? " 

O'Hara at once unfolded part of his scheme to the old 
chap, who seemed mighty pleased at the way O'Hara 
presented the matter to him. The scheme was that we 
should hire one of the large, full outrigger-canoes from 
the natives, and paddle the old man across the mile or so 
of ocean that separated us from Lakemba. We happened 
to know that at Lakemba there was a schooner due to 
sail for Honolulu, and the old fellow knew as well as we 
that it was an easy matter to get a boat from Honolulu 
to San Francisco. So the matter was arranged. 



330 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

Then O'Hara went off to the shore village, made all 
his plans, hired a large outrigger-canoe that could hold 
twenty warriors, and decided that at the first opportunity 
we should clear out with the old man, for w^e thought 
that we could kill two birds with one stone and get away 
to Honolulu in the same schooner. But since man pro- 
poses and God disposes, nothing came off as arranged, 
excepting that we did succeed in getting away from that 
place. The old man seemed as pleased as Punch after 
that scheme had been so rosily presented to him. When 
we got back to the shanty we discovered that the old 
gentleman had presented each member with a five-pound 
note, and that they were all drinking his health from 
the large barrel of rum he had specially purchased for 
them. They all put out their horny hands and one after 
the other gripped his hand, looking quite affected as he 
called them " My dear sons," and ordered the native girls 
to serve out the rum. I saw his old eyes shine as he 
looked into their wicked faces. They were not all vil- 
lainous-looking ; some were as honest as the sunlight, were 
castaway sailormen, or traders who had arrived at that 
Organization as bona fide travellers who would rest there 
a while. 

A special cT)ncert was given on the old chap's behalf 
that night. The native women from Tambu-tambu came 
in and danced on the saloon pae-pae. Oaths and wild 
reminiscences were in full swing. The old gentleman 
became loquacious, sat with lifted finger telling Billy 
Bode a naughty story, and everyone listened with deep 
respect. For those wild men instinctively felt that the 
old fellow was an oasis in the desert for them. He had 
promised them twenty pounds apiece and another barrel 
of the best rum ere he left the Organization's roof, con- 
sequently his interest and safety were their interest and 



RETROSPECT 331 

safety, and when suddenly a tremendous crash came at 
the Organization's front door, they rose en masse! In 
a flash they saw the promised rum and " twenty pounds 
apiece " in danger. In a moment they were on the de- 
fensive. Piff! the packs of half-shuffled cards dropped 
on the table bench; puff! went forty bearded-lips, and 
out went forty tallow candles — candles that were sus- 
pended from the low roof in gin bottles. That old gent 
must have thought a human octopus with ten thousand 
arms and legs had seized him ! Every " man jack " of 
them had made a grab at him in the darkness — crash! 
down went the vast lid of the emergency barrel; they 
had lifted him bodily to the roof, and then, with a mighty 
thrust, so that he was sure to fit in (for he was stout) 
they had crashed him into that gigantic tub! 

Someone opened the door and let the moonlight in. 
It gleamed across the stubbily whiskered, wild-looking 
faces of the men of the shanty, faces flushed with drink 
and the thought that the prisoner in the tub, who had 
promised such wealth, might be seized and taken down 
to Suva in chains! It seemed that fate stared with de- 
termined eyes when those scarred faces looked on the 
new-comers, who stood like shadows at the doorway. 
There was no doubt about it; they were men-hunters! 
Then there was a lot of bustling and whispering, fearful 
efforts, and big bribes were promised to allay suspicion, as 
eight of the stoutest Organization members sat on the 
lid of the tub, grim determination on their faces, a re- 
solve in their eyes to sell their lives dearly ere they gave 
up that mighty hope with side-whiskers and such prom- 
ises! 

When those surveillants went away, quite convinced 
that they were on the wrong track, the whole shanty's 
crew breathed a sigh of relief. It sounded as though 
a young hurricane slept there, and had stirred in its sleep 



332 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

as a score of " Phews! " of delighted relief went across 
the hot, rum-smelling compartment, as one by one the 
candles were relit. Swiftly taking the lid off the emer- 
gency barrel, they dragged forth the old gentleman. 
Their hearts were touched by the sight they beheld. His 
eyes rolled, his clerical hat looked like a broken pancake 
stuck on his head, it was smashed flat through the sudden 
uncalculated fall of the heavy lid in the darkness. 

"What was that?" he wailed, as he recovered con- 
sciousness, and the light of reason flickered across the 
pupils of his sunken eyes. 

" Nothing much," said someone soothingly, as they 
pushed his smashed hat into shape. It was like attempt- 
ing to stand a corpse on its feet, ere rigor mortis had set 
in, when they tried to stand him up. 

" Blimey ! he's a-going, blest if 'e ain't," said one. 
Then they poured some rum down his throat. 

Rum seemed to have its virtues, for the old man made 

a wonderful recovery after the dose was poured down 

his throat. Half an hour afterwards he was singing 

"Little Annie Rooney's my sweetheart," and telling 

jokes. Then he sang again till his voice got wheezy, 

telling tales as he banged his fist on the bench, and nudged 

the men in the ribs, while they roared with laughter! 

Still he drank on. " Rum ! Rum ! " shouted he. Then 

he stood up on the bench and danced with a stout native 

woman from Tambu-tambu village. The delight of the 

women and the shanty members was such that they 

nearly raised the roof with their wild encores and shouts. 

He did a two-step dance ! He mimicked the indescribable 

barbarian contortions of that native woman's monstrous 

antics! He smacked her bare arms, pinched her tawny 

flesh, winked like an old roue, showing conclusively what 

manner of man he really was. The native children 

peeped through the shanty doorway, and when they ob- 



RETROSPECT 333 

served that fashionable old gentleman dancing away with 
a woman of their own land, they shrieked with delight. 
The atmosphere of the Stone Age seemed to hang about 
the old man as the derelicts around him cheered every 
"turn" he gave, as he repeatedly recaught each * fine 
careless rapture " ! 

Then the hubbub subsided, and one by one the drunken 
audience fell asleep. Old Tideman, who was a crank 
on astronomy, crept outside with his telescope to look 
at the stars. The wide-open door revealed the moonlit 
palms just outside and the few straggling figures of sulu- 
clad natives who had crept from afar to listen to the 
songs of the wild white men! The last that was seen 
of the old man that night was when he went off down 
the track, his little clerical hat bashed over his eyes, his 
arms waving as he tried to make his companion under- 
stand how he admired her frizzly mop hair and lustrous 
eyes. For it was the fat native woman with whom he 
had danced a Fijian jig on the bench table! O'Hara 
grinned when he met the old gent in the morning. He 
responded by giving him a freezing stare, as though he 
hardly knew him ! He looked quite pious, as though he 
only indulged in plain milk diet and studied ecclesiastical 
problems. He looked bad though; one can't bribe the 
liver and make its overflow look blushing and rosy red 
when it's really a bilious green! The night of de- 
bauchery had aged him considerably. His hands shook; 
he didn't know which way to go. First he picked a 
flower, chewed it, then wiped his mouth and his clammy 
forehead. O'Hara went straight into business then, and 
said: 

" Fm clearing out to-day. Fve hired a fine outrigger- 
canoe that's big enough to hold twenty." Then he looked 
square into the aged fugitive's face, and asked him if 
he was coming along with us. 



334 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

He was as pleased to get away from that place as we 
were, that was very evident, for he decided to go away 
with O'Hara and myself at once. There was no need 
for secrecy, the shanty was quiet as the grave; for the 
sleeping reprobates were making up by day for sleep 
lost through the night. Only the forest banyans sighed 
as we three crept away into the shadows, and then even 
the wail of the derelict captain's concertina faded away 
as we plunged into the dense wood. When we arrived 
at the native village we found, to our disgust, that the 
man who had promised to lend us the canoe was out 
fishing in it. 

" It's no good getting ratty, guv'nor," said O'Hara, 
as the old fellow began to swear, and said he'd go back 
to the Organization. We breathed a sigh of relief when 
the native boat-owner at length returned. In a moment 
we were off, bound for the shore. The old man dropped 
his walking-stick in his hurry; we were all anxious to 
get away. As we went down the long grove of feathery 
palms and giant breadfruits the stars were shining over 
the sea. We could feel the cool drifts of wind coming 
in as they stirred the wild odours of half-dead forest 
flowers and decaying pineapples. As we tramped down 
the soft shore-track we saw the fireflies dancing in the 
bamboos that grew high up on the edge of the rocky slope 
above us, far ahead. It seemed as though we were look- 
ing through a telescope and could see myriads of tiny 
worlds sparkling and dancing far away in infinite space. 

When we arrived down by the big shore lagoon, there 
lay the large outrigger, floating on the still water, just 
as the native told us it would be. He trusted us. For 
were we not " noble Papalagis " ? 

Not a soul was in sight as we stepped into that strange 
craft. In a minute or two we had pushed off into the 
deeper water. We were both dab hands at paddling. 



RETROSPECT 335 

The scene looked like some picture of enchantment, some 
picturesque landscape out of an Arabian Nights' enter- 
tainment. Only the dipping of the paddles which rippled 
the glassy oil-painting-like stillness of the creek's water 
gave a certain reality to the mystic scene. The old man 
might have been some weird old " Pasha of many tales " 
starting off on a voyage into fairy-land with a clerical 
hat on. It was only the swelling on the side of his head 
where he had been thrust into the emergency barrel that 
reminded one of gross, mundane things. 

It was a terrifically hot night. The sea just outside 
was perfectly calm and wonderfully bright. On the 
horizon shone the large, low, yellow moon, bringing into 
relief the wild inland shores, gullies, buttressed banyans, 
and belts of mangroves that grew down to the ocean's 
edge. 

The moon looked like some far-off, phantom tunnel- 
way as the ornamental prow of our canoe turned and 
glided silently, making straight for its ghostly rim, due 
south. The old fellow's face was turned towards its 
magnificent mystery; O'Hara sat in the centre of the 
canoe, and I aft. We were not more than twenty yards 
from the shore then. It really did look as though we 
were paddling away from some enchanted isle ; only the 
cry of some strange night-bird and the leap of a tidal 
wave over the reefs, as it splashed into the lagoon's still 
water, made a feeble, ghost-like noise. 

"It's quite safe, fellows, I suppose?" queried the old 
man, as he looked anxiously about him. 

" Safe as houses," O'Hara replied. Then he said, 
"What's that?" 

We all looked shoreward. Out by the edge of the 
promontory we distinctly saw a tiny phosphorescent 
splash as though some strange animal had darted from 
the forest and dived into the deep water. 



336 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

We still watched, then we distinctly saw shivering lines 
of silver ripples stealing towards us, coming fast, trem- 
bling and spreading swiftly on the ocean's perfectly calm, 
moonlit surface. 

" It's something big swimming under the water. 
Begorra ! a shark coming for us ! " said O'Hara. The 
old gent shot up on his feet with fright and nearly upset 
ithe canoe! I think my comrade and I looked a bit 
palish as the uncanniness of that movement of the un- 
seen came straight for us. ** Wish I'd brought a re- 
volver. By St. Patrick! who'd 'ave thought things 
was a-going to swim after us under the blasted 
Avater?" 

"Keep still; don't move!" said I, my heart in my 
mouth, for the ripples were within thirty yards of our 
canoe, and still no sign whatever of the cause of that 
mysterious movement beneath the water. 

Then we stared as though we'd sighted a ghost; up 
poked a tiny curly head, two bright, beautiful eyes were 
staring reproachfully at me! 

" Good Lord ! " I gasped ; " it's Soogy ! '* 

We pulled him into the canoe. O'Hara used an awful 
swear word, said unprintable things. As for me, I felt 
some strange, haunting kind of a fear come over me as 
the child sat there. 

" You go tryer and getter away from your little 
Soogy?" said that weird child. 

" No," said I, shaking my head, feeling guilty as I 
replied, " No, Soogy," half apologetically! Then I said: 
" We were coming back to-morrow morning. How on 
earth did you know we were out here in a canoe? " 

The little fellow's eyes brightened; he simply looked 
at me earnestly for a while, then said : 

" I knower all 'bout you ! The wind blow in cave by 
sea and tell me all." 



RETROSPECT 837 

''Well, Vm blithered and damned if that kid won't 
bring us bad luck," said O'Hara. 

Soogy had calmly got to the rear of the canoe, had 
taken the steering-rod, and had started to guide us with 
the splendid precision of a native child. The prow was 
toward the south, bound for the isle of Lakemba. 

"I suppose you know your way?" suddenly said the 
old gentleman, as he leaned forward, struck a match, and 
lit a cigar. 

O'Hara never answered, simply looked contemptu- 
ously at the white-whiskered face as the mouth sent up 
curling whiffs of blue smoke into the clear moonlit air. 
We were out in the deep ocean by then, paddling for all 
we were worth. The distance by night took one quite 
out of sight of land ; even by daylight the nearest shore- 
line in the farthest distance looked like a blue blotch 
on the horizon. 

I think we had been paddling about an hour w^hen the 
moon suddenly went out and seemed to leave a puff of 
bright smoke behind — it had gone behind a cloud. 

" That was sudden-like ! " said O'Hara. 

It was a puff of wind ; it blew the old gentleman's hat 
off. 

" Hope it's not going to blow," was my mental com- 
ment, as once again a breath came down from the sky 
and stirred the glassy surface. The old fellow saw the 
look in our eyes, and, guessing that things were not as 
well as they could be, said: "Why didn't you tell me 
we had to go out of sight of land? I'd never have 
risked this ; I wouldn't — I wouldn't," he mut?tered to him- 
self. Then without further warning it came — crash! a 
typhoon was on us. The first blast nearly blew the out- 
rigger out of the water. The only reason that it didn't 
turn turtle was that the outrigger contrivance had been 
constructed by the superior savage intellect. It seemed 



338 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

that the bright worlds of stars and sea had been sponged 
off the map of existence, as we clung to each other, and 
the mountainous seas heaved their backs and began to 
roar like thunder around us. The old fellow had lost his 
nerve, he wept and implored us to save him ; but O'Hara 
and I were very busy saving ourselves in that chaos of 
dark and wind and ramping seas. 

Soogy was there all right, I felt his hand clinging to 
my leg. 

" Keep still ! For God's sake, don't move ! " we both 
cried, as the old man came to our end of the canoe, 
nearly upsetting our planet, for such that craft was to 
us. Soogy had taken a paddle to help O'Hara and so 
keep her head on to the tremendous seas, but it was no 
use; she slewed round and went broadside on, and so 
the seas swamped us. But art;ill we did not sink. Those 
stout bamboo poles kept the craft buoyant and steady 
as compared to what would have happened had they not 
been there. For Soogy was sitting on the dancing otrt- 
rigger, balancing it as the big seas came on and tried in 
vain to turn us upside down ! Ah, he was a plucky little 
beggar, quite devoid of fear. We three men simply 
gave up the ghost so far as making intelligent efforts 
to save ourselves were concerned. O'Hara clung to me, 
I clung to O'Hara, and the old fellow clung to us both. 
The hot, terrific wind hissed, shrieked over us as we 
felt the canoe go up — up ! on the mountainous seas, then 
down — down! into the terrible thundering valleys as the 
angry waters fell. Then once again we were climbing 
the travelling hills that were drifting us away far out 
into the vast solitude of the Pacific Ocean! 

It seemed as if that dark and roaring wind hung over 
our heads for infinite ages. How we clung to that out- 
J*i&ger and were not washed away is a mystery that is 
connected with Providence and that word " inscrutable." 



RETROSPECT 339 

When dawn at length brightened all the east, I lifted 
my head half fearfully. Soogy was huddled beside me, 
O'Hara on the other side, so tight that we were wedged 
in. The old gentleman had managed to fix his head and 
neck under the forward canoe-seat in such a way that 
he had become a part of the canoe itself ! His bald head, 
through sea-water repeatedly washing over it, had be- 
come quite bluish-looking. By some miracle his clerical- 
shaped hat still lay just beside him. When O'Hara softly 
pulled his coat to see if he was still alive, he half opened 
his eyes and rolled them in a pathetic way. The fact 
that he still lived relieved our loneliness. The wind had 
ceased, but the swell remained, huge rolling hills of glassy 
water rising and travelling at about four knots an hour. 
We immediately commenced to bale out the canoe, using 
a calabash and a tin which we discovered beneath the 
seat. Soogy and the old man helped O'Hara and myself 
in this task. We all felt deeply thankful when the sun 
burst out over the great waste in all its tropical vigour. 
Soogy began to sing, and cheered us up. None of us 
seemed to realize the true state of affairs, that we were 
out of sight of land, were castaways on the Pacific, our 
paddles gone, and only about two pints of water in a rusity 
tin can ! 

The hot sunlight soon dried our soaked clothing. 

The old fugitive became transformed. The erstwhile 
freezing look in his eyes had gone, and was replaced by 
a gleam of friendly appeal to us! It was quite evident 
that he saw things as they were, and had admitted O'Hara 
and myself into his social circle, so to speak. He gave 
us cigars. To our relief he discovered some matches 
in his breast pocket; they were damp, but we placed them 
on the rim of his clerical hat and they soon dried in the 
hot sunlight. That hait had gone through something ! To 
this day I cannot look at a clerical hat without thinking 



340 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

of typhoons and tropic skies shining over wastes of water 
surrounded by inimitable skylines. 

We commenced carefully, and drank a very small drop 
of water each. We made several attempts to make 
paddles out of the spare calabash and the slit wood of 
a canoe seat, but it was no good. We were drifting at 
about four knots an hour to the north-east. 

As the hours went by we began to realize our position. 
And yet, somehow, it seemed incredible that we should 
be cast away on those lonely waters so easily. 

" A ship is sure to pass us soon," said O'Hara. 

*' Of course it is," I replied, as our aged companion put 
his hand to his brow and repeatedly scanned the horizon. 
I even laughed, and so did O'Hara, and I thought of my 
old sea-adventure books, and felt quite a romantic hero 
of the tropic seas. But I soon began to feel very unheroic, 
and felt inclined to laugh on " the other side of my 
mouth," as they say. It was the coming of night that 
made the romantic novelty wear off. There's nothing in 
the world like the shadows of night coming over the 
heads of castaways to make them sadly realise, so I 
should think. Reality came down on us like a huge, 
Fate-like hand, and seemed to crush, smash us as though 
we were bedraggled flies on a mighty window-pane! 

Night was a nightmare with a myriad starry eyes. 
Thirst had us in its grip, but we dare not drink the tiny 
drop of water that remained in the can. I fell asleep for 
five minutes, but only managed to fall off into some gulf 
of misery that was mixed up with the horror of death 
and castaway canoes. Then O'Hara and I sat up and 
started to sing a sea-chanty, to cheer up the old gentleman 
and little Soogy. But, withal, Soogy was plucky enough. 
As for the aged fugitive, he started to carry on in a 
terrible way, and kept crying out : *' Lost at sea in a 
boat ! Lost at sea in a boat ! " Then he got sleepy and 



RETROSPECT 341 

mumbled it out in a pathetic, far-away tone, and got on 
our nerves more than I can express in cold words. 

I once fancied that I saw the light of a passing vessel, 
but it soon died away, whatever it was. 

" May the Holy Virgin protect us all ! " said O'Hara. 

Then dawn came. Soogy stopped singing songs. The 
sight of the child's bright, fevered eyes and parched lips 
unnerved us. O'Hara did the worst thing he could do, 
gave the child a tiny drop of spirit as he lay moaning 
out on the twisted bamboo grating of the outrigger. 
Soogy tried hard to buck up, but his small frame hadn't 
the lasting power that our larger frames possessed. At 
the end of the second day, as near as I can remember, 
we realized our position, and knew that we were float- 
ing on the very edge of eternity. The old man became 
quite brave. His eyes lost all the old cunning and craft 
that I had so particularly observed in them. Even then, 
my numbed senses seemed to realize that it was only 
the worldly world that makes men bad, the earthly values 
of things inspiring them with greed till their darker 
passions overgrow their better qualities as weeds over- 
grow and strangle flowers. 

We shared out the last drop of water. The old gentle- 
man gave Soogy a part of his share, and we did likewise. 
O'Hara became quite religious, in the true sense of that 
much misused word. Through the whole day and night 
we never ceased lifting our weary heads to stare on the 
skyline. But no vessel passed. The old man placed his 
large red handkerchief over Soogy. It was a terrible 
sight, as Soogy's hands tossed, to see the blisters on the 
little arms. But it was no use waving to the hot tropic 
sun as it shone up there in the cloudless sky. 

"We're done for," said O'Hara; then he, too, lay 
down again, and seemed to grow careless as to whatever 
might happen. 



342 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

That night Soogy revived in a wonderful way. I was 
lying in a semi-conscious state when I felt someone gently 
touch my arm. 

"You sorry for Soogy?" said a far-away-sounding 
voice. The child was staring in my eyes in a strange, 
quiet way. 

" Perhaps Vm dreaming," I thought, as a great sense 
of the unreal came over me. My heart began to thump 
and my senses to whirl and swim. O'Hara and the old 
man were lying just beside us, perfectly quiet, as though 
dead. I stared into the eyes of the wistful little face. 

"Is it you, Soogy?" I said in a hushed voice, as I 
lifted my aching head. "Dear God!" I muttered, as 
I realized something for the first time, while the child's 
eyes stared into my own. I felt that I had never seen 
such soft, beautiful eyes before. Floating there, under 
the stars of the tropic seas, nothing seemed too strange 
or wonderful to occur. A terrible sorrow possessed me 
as I touched the soft, tiny hand, and pressed my lips 
to those pleading lips! For a little while, that seemed 
like a thousand years, Soogy huddled beneath the folds 
of my coat. 

"You come to me if I die, come to heathenland ? " 
Such was what a faint voice, like far-off music, whispered 
in my ears. I cannot say one word of all that I whis- 
pered into the child's ear. I said mad things, I know. 

" I happy now, Papalagi," whispered that faint, strange 
voice. 

At daybreak Soogy died. 

O'Hara laid the silent form out on the edge of the 
outrigger's grating. All that day O'Hara and I kept 
our backs turned towards that silent form, lying there, 
face downwards. I told O'Hara to lay Soogy like that. 
I couldn't stand seeing those earnest eyes staring all night 
up at the merciless infinity of stars. 



RETROSPECT 343 

The old fugitive became insane. We only saw his 
head move; he had covered it over with a bit of sacking 
tto keep the sun's rays off. 

"Forgive me, Cissie — forgive me, Cissie; keep the 
keys — keep the keys,'* he kept saying over and over again 
in his delirium. The sky was no longer a sky to me, it 
was a monstrous slab lying over a mighty vault wherein 
the dead still breathed as they floated and tossed their 
arms in agony on illimitable waters. 

Soogy's death seemed to revive O'Hara and me; yet 
we said very little to each other. It was a world of 
dreams that we stared In, some phantasmagorial exist- 
ence where only death whispered as the outrigger plopped 
in the star-mirroring deep around us. O'Hara was no 
longer my pal in sorrow ; we had become rivals in some 
terrible struggle of will-power. The energy of the whole 
universe seemed to be wholly concentrated on one vital 
move on the tremendous chess-board of that phantasmal 
world of water whereon we drifted. O'Hara and I were 
the sorrowing slaves of Fate; nothing else existed, only 
he and I and the dreadful thought as to which one of us 
must put forth our hand and make that terrible move. 
It was inevitable that one of us must do it, for on those 
tropic seas there was no other way than to crawl out 
on the outrigger and push that small dead form into the 
vast depths that moved around us. The tropic moon 
loomed on the horizon. It might have been the uprising 
sun, for all I knew, in that world of horror that I had 
been plunged into. I looked over the canoe's side and 
gazed into the glassy depths. I saw a great shark gliding 
along under the surface. It seemed natural that it should 
be there, waiting for us. I gazed in a languid, interested 
way as that cannibal of the deep turned softly over on 
its back and revealed its shining belly. Its cruel, mon- 
strous mouth looked like some materialized jaw of pallid 



34i SOUTH SEA FOAM 

hate as it softly snapped at my shadow that lay in the 
moonlit deep, and severed it in two ! Then O'Hara dis- 
solved into some cobweb-like substance and was blown 
away on the puff of wind that crept across the hot seas. 

Dawn came like a mighty torrent of silver and swept 
across the silent world of waters. I felt that I was 
floating across shadow-seas. For a little while I heard 
a faint moaning and felt cool sea-water slashing over 
me. I tried to move, but something held my feet down 
in a merciless grip. It was all the more terrible because 
I realized in some mysterious way that I was far at sea 
on that castaway canoe. The fact was, that a breeze 
had sprung up and the canoe was being tossed wildly to 
and fro. Why none of us was thrown out is a mystery. 
Anyhow, the blow was of short duration, for I suddenly 
lifted my head, and saw O'Hara and the old gentleman 
lying perfectly still beside me. Then the world seemed 
to change again : night fell over the sea. Again I watched 
that silent form lying out on the grating. Again the 
dawn sent grey wings along the eastern horizon. It 
was then that I became strangely calm, and, terrible as 
the sight was, as that child lay dead on the grating of 
the canoe, I smiled and looked upon it all as the most 
commonplace of experiences. 

" Good-bye, Soogy," I said, then I gently pushed the 
small figure from the bamboo-outrigger. Some terrible 
spell of curiosity gripped me. I stared down into the 
water in wistful fascination, as, leaning over, I watched 
the spot where the ripples spread, where the small form 
had gone down, down into the clear, still ocean depth 
at dawn. I could still distinctly see Soogy sinking down 
into the grave! It looked like the figure of some tiny 
child imaged in some vast crystal mirror as down, down 
it went. Only the mournful cry of a solitary sea-bird, 
fis it passed across the sky and sent a shadow over that 



RETROSPECT 345 

wandering grave, broke the stillness. Then I saw the 
figure begin to sway rhythmically to some deep ocean 
current. Presently it looked no bigger than a penny 
terra-cotta-coloured doll. 

Ah, I had hoped to find that it was all a dream as I 
still watched, rubbed my eyes, and hoped with a terrible 
hope. I well knew, as that tiny remnant of mortality 
faded from sight, that I was living in some terrible 
sorrow of reality. I thought of those forest dances away 
in Fiji, of the weird, tender glances of those deep, golden- 
iris eyes, when Soogy crept out of the forest palms to 
make my bed. I remembered the sweet, weird song the 
heathen child had sung to me, and how the witch-like 
little singer had stared across the camp-fire till I had 
felt some strange fright ! But the mystery of it all had 
vanished, for, on the second night after the storm, O'Hara 
and I had discovered the truth — Soogy was no boy at 
all, but a half-caste Polynesian girl! 

A great silence seemed to come over the world after 
Soogy sank from sight. And then my dreams were 
broken, and I fancied I could hear the breakers beating 
against eternity. Someone touched me softly on the 
brow, and a voice said : 

" Try and stand on your feet ; we're saved, pal." 

I half realized something, and sat up. I looked imme- 
diately to the southward and saw the eternal wastes of 
sea-skyline, then I glanced round and noticed that our 
canoe was tossing about on a heavy swell just off a 
rocky coast. We were so near the reefs that I could 
head the soughing of the wind along the bending tracts 
of shore palms (it turned out to be the Tonga Islands). 
O'Hara was sitting on the bamboo grating of the canoe's 
outrigger. His face appeared extremely thin and was 
ghastly pale. The aged fugitive sat huddled by the prow, 
his battered clerical hat held in his trembhng hand, his 



346 SOUTH SEA FOAM . 

chin on his chest, a wild look in his eyes. They both 
looked like emaciated phantom-figures, quite unreal. 
Only at that moment in my life did I realize in a flash 
how we mortals are but shadows moving through some 
dream that divides our existence from the boundless 
reality of the great shadowland. True enough, too, I 
had awakened from a terrible reality into a darker dream. 

"The child's gone!" said O'Hara. 

" I know," I muttered in a vacant way before I re- 
alized the truth. Then, in the terror of dawning realiza- 
tion, I gasped out, "Where's Soogy?" 

" She must have been washed away by the squall last 
night,'* said O'Hara, and his voice was as gentle as a 
girFs. 

• • • • • • • 

After that tragical experience we were taken in by 
the missionaries at Tonga and treated with the kindness 
that is always shown to shipwrecked men wherever they 
may go. We soon recovered physically from the buffet- 
ing of our castaway voyage. I know that in the comfort 
of life under secure conditions in Tonga, the old gentle- 
man's freezing look almost came back to his little blue 
eyes; but when he discovered that I was a professional 
violinist as well as a vagabond troubadour, his manner 
became almost polite. This deeply-rooted conventional 
attribute of the old man's was the more noticeable when 
I secured a position at Nukualofa as Court violinist to 
King George of Tonga,^ also a munificent salary that 
was considerably augmented by gifts from the head mis- 
sionaries, who willingly paid me for my solos at the 
mission-room concerts. My Irish comrade could hardly 
believe his eyes when I stood on the primitive platforms 
of the native villages and became an enthusiastic appealer 
to the souls of the pagan Tongans. I recall that, when 

1 King George of Tonga died recently, 1918. 



RETROSPECT 347 

I played and conducted the royal string band in the native 
wedding-march on the marriage of some prince of the 
old dynasty, the Queen of Tonga presented me with an 
exquisitely carved tortoise-shell comb from her hair. In- 
deed, I was doing exceedingly well, considering that I 
had no letters of introduction. This kind of thing went 
on for nearly three weeks, when a full-rigged sailing-ship, 
the " Orontes," dropped anchor off the island. Its sails 
gleaming in the sunset, shining like beautiful signals of 
romance, called me, till the old roaming spiriit, asserting 
itself, shattered all my ambitions over kings, queens, 
missionaries. Court appointments, and salaries. The 
" Orontes " was bound for Ysabel, Solomon Isles, and 
British New Guinea. When I went aboard her and in- 
terviewed the skipper, telling him I wanted a berth, he 
shook his head, and said he could get a dozen Kanakas 
for the price of a drink, as good as any white men, any 
day. And so, when the ** Orontes," with her sails belly- 
ing to the winds, bowed to the sunset on her long voyage 
across the Pacific, O'Hara and I lay huddled on old 
sacks in the deep gloom of the forepeak-hold, where we 
had secured the cheapest berth — as stowaways! 

In my imagination I can still see 0'Hara*s grimy, 
unshaven face as he sits in the gloom beside me, puffs 
his short pipe, and drinks at regular intervals from the 
water-bottle. The rats squeak. 

" Don't smoke, for Heaven's sake," I say, as O'Hara 
strikes another match on the ship's iron side. I feel 
sick enough in that stuffy hold as the vessel pitches to 
the swell. Then, as I sit there amongst the strong, evil- 
smelling merchandise of our wandering argosy, I place 
my fiddle on my knee and go " pink-e-te ponk-e-te," pizzi- 
cato style, as my fingers strum out an old English melody. 

" For God's sake, shut up, pal! " says O'Hara, as we 
hear the sailormen tramping on the deck just overhead, 



348 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

as they go on watch in the silence of the hot tropic night. 
But all that's past now. My Irish comrade went out 
of my life years ago. And I suppose the old fugitive, 
with his clerical hat, has long since paid his last debt, 
and kind men have hidden his artful face in that place 
where no living man will search to find him. As for the 
Charity Organization, it has most probably discarded long 
ago its primitive style and locality, and now maybe does 
its good work from some more palatial institution in 
the remoter islands of the Pacific. With the advance- 
ment of civilization things are carried on in more sumptu- 
ous style. Indeed, I would not be surprised to hear 
that the new Charity Organization Hermitage, that wel- 
comes the homeless derelicts who have flown in haste 
from the western cities, has a gilded dome and spire 
peeping from a solitary forest of some remote isle of 
the southern seas. Possibly a secret cable runs under 
the Pacific, running straight from its guarding seclusion, 
sending out warnings to its prospective proteges. In- 
deed, even in those far-off days. Bones' establishment 
at Fiji had depots that extended to the extreme points 
of the civilized world. And it was marvellous how 
often the keen surveillants of the Australian seaboard 
cities were baffled in their search for missing bank-man- 
agers, etc. So wags the world, things only apparently 
changing as one age appears to differ from another age. 
It is only the hearts of men that remain the same, as 
the centuries pass and fashions change, so that men may 
open their doors inwards instead of outwards, and so 
sit and dream that the moral codes of the world have 
become reversed. Even my rose-coloured spectacles re- 
main the same; though they have become somewhat 
dimmed, I can still fix them on and gaze with hopeful 
eyes on the wondrous pageant of life that moves with me 
along the great vagabond track. And many times have 



RETROSPECT 349 

I sought to lend them to sad men and women who stag- 
gered beside me, yes, as they stared bHndly through their 
bits of smoky glass. But sometimes I shiver with dread 
at the possibility that Imay some day grow wise and 
restrained, and no longer love fairy-tales, fallen, sinful 
men, and beautiful women of four years old. And so 
I often rekindle my camp-fire and sit alone, so that I 
may hear the forest trees singing overhead. It is then 
that O'Hara comes back out of the shadows; and, as 
I play my violin, sings some rollicking Irish song. And, 
strange as it may appear to some, when the log fire is 
burning low, a misty pageant passes before my eyes. 
One by one my old tribal poets, attired in all the primitive 
majesty of tattoo and tapu-robes, stalk by me, and pass 
silently down the moonlit banyan groves. 'Tis then that 
the call comes again; for I am the doomed rolling stone 
that gathered the magical moss of these memoirs and 
all that has made me know how little men are, and 
humbly realize that I have chanced to live universally 
instead of only roaming in my boots over the wide spaces 
of this beautiful world„ In this wise I have found and 
placed carefully down any little campfire-gleams of in- 
terest which my book may possess, as well as having 
found my religion in some sorrow of the eternity of all 
things past. I still jog along, carrying my staflF and 
my violin, and weighted swag of dreams, as I roam along 
the forest track. And, though I have many years to 
travel ere I become old, I can say in the deeper sense 
of its meaning: 

There's not a flower along the wild hillside, 

Or song-bird of the woods that sang and died, 

But it has kinship with the winds that blow 

O'er memory's forest trees of long ago. 

And not a beggar in the distant lands 

But I am with him, heart and soul and hands— 

To help him carry his old swag of dreams 



350 SOUTH SEA FOAM 

In some great twinship of our shattered schemes; 
As deep within my heart I hear the chime 
Of night winds tolling all the bells of Time — 
In some old belfry of the stars they ring 
The songs the dead men dream and cannot sing. 

Even the bluest, grandest ocean of the world exists 
in my mind only as some deep, solemn hymning that 
tells the briefness of mortal existence. Sometimes, when 
I hear the wind blow in the night, my thoughts go flying 
out to the wide Pacific that heaves under the stars, and 
is, to me, the vast, wandering grave wherein ill-fated 
Soogy, the native child, sleeps. 



THE END 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: June 2003 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN PAPER PRESERVATION 



